


Time Has Changed Me (And Left Me Full of Doubt)

by asbelow



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reverse Portal (Gravity Falls), Angst, Daddy!Stan, Gen, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Mullet Grunkle Stan, Single Dad Stanley Pines, Stangst, This is gonna be long I can feel it in my bones, Well the comfort comes eventually, poor stan, vivid depictions of nightmares
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:03:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 65,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9379610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asbelow/pseuds/asbelow
Summary: “Ford called me today. Hung up from him just a few minutes before you called.”“He… He did?” No wonder Ma had been on the verge of hysterics earlier. It was one thing to hear from the deadbeat son, but to hear from the good one too? That was a different story.“How… How’s he doing?” his voice was more of a whisper than he’d have liked.He hadn’t spoken to Stanford in years. Not since Stanley’s hopes of forgiveness had ended in searing hot metal and a trip somewhere that still haunted him when he closed his eyes. Once he’d gotten back, he left that godforsaken house and the man inside it and made damn sure to never look back.Ford wasn’t the one who went through the portal in 1982. Though he might not have been stranded on the other side of it for decades, that portal had destroyed a lot more than just metal and wiring and Stanley wasn’t sure he had it in him to even want to put the pieces of it all back together anymore.





	1. I'll Come Running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You just call out my name_  
>  And you know wherever I am  
> I'll come running to see you again  
> Winter, spring, summer or fall  
> All you've got to do is call  
> And I'll be there  
> You've Got A Friend—James Taylor
> 
> Stanley makes a mistake or two, or so he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea's been swimming around in my head for quite some time now and hopefully writing it all out'll keep it from running wild and taking over every available space in my mind. I'm kinda hesitant to post it, since I've never posted any writing anywhere before (barring one cringeworthy thing once when I was twelve, but let's not talk about the Dark Times). Sooo... I hope somebody likes it? Please forgive any formatting issues I've got going on. I have no idea what I'm doing.

Some days were better than others.

Some days, few and far between though they were, were good enough that a single father like him could scrape up a few bucks here and there just by looking tired and at a loss while holding his daughter’s hand. Some days, it helped even more that his little girl was sweet and precious enough that she could entrance a few strangers long enough for him to ease a few more bills out of their wallets with none but him the wiser.

She really was a cute kid, he was proud to admit, with his dark curly hair and these big doe eyes. Big, happy eyes that sometimes seemed to understand a lot more than she let on. A lot more than he’d ever want her to. She was smart, he could already tell that, but he wasn’t sure if it should make him feel proud or guilty. The happy toddler was currently singing some song she’d made up; he’d have to be quick to finish his handiwork before she lost her train of thought or got otherwise distracted. Smart or not, she was still a three-year-old with the attention span that came with her young age.

A few minutes later, Stanley Pines was suitably richer while Stella seemed quite pleased with the attention she’d earned herself, and suitably more so with the promise of “pancakes or whatever” wherever they stopped for the night. A twinge of dread crept up Stan’s spine as he wondered how far he’d have to drive that night to get out of Dodge. His most recent “employers” were probably… less than pleased with him for managing to disappear from the scene just before the cops came (though he had nothing to do with that) and since he wanted to keep his throat unopened, it was probably best for the two of them to get as far away from Utah as possible.

Today was not a good day, because even though Stan could swipe enough cash for food, gas, and maybe even a motel room on days like this, it took time he didn’t have, and brought attention to him and Stella that he couldn’t afford. He decided to let Stella play honestly in whatever park they’d found themselves in for a couple of minutes more before herding her back to the car. He had to let her be a kid sometime, though they really needed to get a move on.He took the girl’s small hand in his and ushered her into the backseat of the El Diablo, double-checking that she was buckled into the ratty old carseat.

“And don’t unbuckle yourself.” Stan warned. “Y’never know when Daddy might have to drive fast.” Stella looked a little bit insulted at his lack of faith in her. He gave the child a cheeky grin in response and hopped into the driver’s seat before pulling out of the parking lot and angling them towards the highway.

“…You alright back there, kid?” Stan glanced into the rearview mirror at the child in the backseat, who made no response. She was already fast asleep. It must’ve been nice to be able to fall asleep at the drop of a hat. No matter how exhausted he was, sleep seemed like some long lusted-after prize he’d never win. No rest for the wicked, and all that.

It was probably for the best that Stella was asleep, Stan decided. He could focus on the road without having to keep the young girl occupied, though she never seemed to need much in the way of entertainment. He didn’t want to admit he’d have liked the company, though, little though it was. She was quite the mature three-year-old, he’d found. Never threw a tantrum, and never seemed to want much in the way of toys or knick knacks, which both relieved and concerned him. He wouldn’t have been able to afford them if she asked, but he wasn’t completely sure her apparent lack of interest was healthy, especially not if she was feigning disinterest for his sake.

He pushed his worries aside—for now, at least. They’d creep back up to visit again later. They always did. Now, though, he needed to figure out where they were headed next. Wherever they ended up, he’d likely have to spring for a motel room. They were coming up on the tail end of November. The weather had begun to take a turn for the frigid. If it were just Stan himself, he would’ve just toughed it out in the Stanleymobile again, but he couldn’t in clear conscience put a child through another cold night like that, especially not with how she’d been sniffling earlier. _But then again, if I bundle her up in_ all _the blankets, she’ll probably be fine. Maybe._ He’d figure this out. He’d just have to see how far he could drive today and how much money he’d have left after a meal and another tank of gas. _Should’ve never gotten kicked out of Louisiana._  

“It’ll be fine.” He told himself.It always worked out fine, or as fine as it could be when you were a homeless ex-convict with a kid to look after. Deep down, Stanley Pines still felt a small seed of unease taking root in the pit of his stomach, and he wasn’t sure he could shake the feeling. 

Dinner, if it could be called that, was relatively uneventful. All the roadside diners started to blend together over the years, as did the miles of road between them. Stella seemed half asleep still as she slowly nibbled at her plate of fries, and he tried to ignore the searching look she shot him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention, as was becoming routine. Normally, any semblance of a routine would have comforted him, but this one only seemed to make his skin crawl.

He drove for another few hours, until the child in the backseat had exhausted the extra crayon pack he’d nicked and the backs of the kids’ menus they’d grabbed on the way out had been sufficiently scribbled over, and had settled on curling up across the backseat as an alternative pastime, long after his tired eyes had grown bloodshot and bleary. He wormed his way towards a rest stop near… near whatever small city he’d wound up in—did it really matter what it was called, at this point?—and pointed the Stanleymobile towards the back of the empty parking lot. He cut the ignition with a sigh, his eyes scanning their deserted surroundings. He spotted a payphone under a light closer to the empty building and absently patted his jeans pocket. He figured he had enough to make a call.

Not that he wanted to.

He probably did have enough, though he knew there wasn’t much point in wondering about it. He wasn’t too sure anyone would want to hear from _him,_ of all people, anyway.

He hadn’t called his Ma in years—he winced at the thought—not since he’d…gotten back. Surely she’d long given up on him.

An insistent voice in the back of his mind called his bluff. _Don’t be stupid. She’s probably mad as hell, sure, but she’d at least like to know she didn’t miss your funeral._ He snorted. He’d probably never get a funeral. More likely, he’d get a shallow, hidden grave or a quick toss in a potter’s field.

“She probably wouldn’t be bothered to show up to that, anyhow.” He whispered. The only person who would bother to show up would likely be his daughter, mostly because she’d be too small to have much of a choice.

With a sigh, he spared an upwards glance into the rearview mirror and, satisfied that the child was still asleep, eased himself out of the car and locked it behind himself before jogging off to the payphone. It wasn’t _too_ late, he figured. She’d probably still be up at this hour. After staring at the keypad for a while, his shaking fingers dialed the familiar number and he let out a sigh of relief he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when she answered the line.

“…Hey, Ma.”

“ _Stanley?”_ he could hear her breathing hitch. They were both silent. “Stanley Pines, _is that you?_ ” he gave a weak laugh.

“I know it’s been a while.”

“Been a while? _Been a while?_ Stanley Filbrick Pines, ya haven’t called ya poor mother in almost TEN YEARS NOW!” He grimaced. She was nearly hyperventilating.

“Who knows what coulda happened to ya? I’ve had _no_ idea where you were for _years,_ if my baby was stuck rotting away in some cell somewhere, or-or-or if you were _hurt,_ or—”

“Ma. Hey.” He cut in. “Ma, it’s okay. I’m fine. Everything’s fine, Ma.”

“It is _not_ fine, Stanley, _fine_ doesn’t neglect ta call his mother for half a decade and—”

“Oh, Ma, you know me. Off adventurin’ and explorin’ the world, that type of thing.” He embellished. Besides, y’got two other boys to make up for me—”

“ _Make up for you?! Stanley—”_

“I mean, it’s not like I’ve been doing anything really interesting, like… Like Ford, or Shermie.” Stanley found that Stanford’s name had been a hard lump to choke out. “H-how’re Shermie and Isaac doin’, by the way? Last I heard, they—”

“Ford called me today. Hung up from him just a few minutes before you called.”

“He… He did?” No wonder Ma had been on the verge of hysterics. It was one thing to hear from the deadbeat son, but to hear from the good one too? That was a different story.

“How… How’s he doing?” his voice was more of a whisper than he’d have liked. 

He hadn’t spoken to Stanford in years. Not since he’d driven up to that creepy sci-fi shack in the dead of winter at his bother’s behest and Stanley’s hopes of forgiveness had ended in searing hot metal and a trip somewhere that still haunted him when he closed his eyes. Once he’d gotten… _back_ , back to what he guessed—what he still _hoped_ —was the _real_ world or as close to it as he was gonna get, potential fever dream aside, he left that godforsaken house and the man inside it and made damn sure to never look back.

His mother’s strained voice pulled him back from his thoughts. 

“I think Ford… I don’t think ya brother’s doing too well. Not well at all. He sounded so… lost. ”

_Lost. Aren’t we all?_

She decided to drive home her point with a knife right through Stanley’s chest.

“He sounded like you normally do.”

Stanley decided to take offense and straightened his posture. “Hey! C’mon, Ma, you I’m right as rain, I’m sure he’s just—”

“No, you’re not. You’re not alright, and neither is your brother. And neither of you have been, not for a long time. You two _need_ each other, even if the both of ya are too stubborn to realize it.”

Stan let out a long, slow huff and turned, his eyes darting back to the car as he fiddled with his change, feeding another quarter into the slot. “Ma, the two of us just aren’t cut out for one another.” 

“What the two of you are is my two little peas in a pod. I didn’t carry the both of yous for almost nine whole months and watch you two grow up thick as thieves ta not bother talking to each other for almost twenty years!”

“Maaaaaaa…” Stanley drawled. It wasn’t _that_ long. Maybe more like seventeen. Or eighteen. Who was counting? 

“Oh, don’t you ‘Maaa’ me, Stanley Pines. You two are _brothers,_ and ya need to start acting like it and stop causing ya poor mother so much grief. I can’t stand to see the two of you acting like complete strangers. You’ll understand how I feel when you have kids of ya own.” Stanley pursed his lips for a moment and chose to say nothing,

“Ford won’t wanna see me, ma.”Especially not now, after he’d ruined the one worthwhile thing he could’ve done with his life, according to Ford, and had wasted the man’s time with getting him back to this side of reality. 

“Of _course_ he wants to see you! He sounded so happy when I told him you were comin’ up to see him.” What?

“Ma, you did _what?_ I’m not—why would you—”

“You’re forgetting your poor mother is a psychic.” Another huff.

“ _Anyways,_ your brother is already expecting you, and he’s happy to see you. Don’t leave ‘im hanging, baby. Please. Do it for me?” Stanley was silent for a few more moments, until a metallic voice warned him of his low funds. 

“Alright, ma. Okay.” 

“That’s all I ask, baby. Thank you. For callin’ and for checkin’ on ya brother.”

Stanley stared out at his car in the dim light for a long while before mustering up the courage to fish for another quarter. The phone rang several times before someone picked up, to Stan’s silent disappointment.

“Stanford Pines residence,” a harried voice gasped out, sending a painful churn through Stan’s stomach. 

“Hello?” His mouth opened and closed for a few moments before he managed to speak.

“Stanford.” He rasped. The line grew silent.

“ _Lee?_ Stanley? Stanley, is that really you? I…” he trailed off. “It’s… It’s good to hear your voice.” God, Stanley could almost hear Ford straighten his back as he took on that nerdy voice he only used when uncomfortable. Stanley slumped. He knew this would be a bad idea.

“Yeah, I… Yeah.” He mumbled, hoping Stanford would take that for the ‘ _yeah, same here’_ that it wasn’t. It wasn’t good. It was tearing him apart from the inside out. Nothing good would ever feel like this. 

There was another uncomfortable lull. “I, uh… I talked to Ma a few minutes ago.”

“Oh! Yes, yes, I suppose she called you immediately after we disconnected.” Stan was willing to let him believe that, and said nothing.

“Yeah. Uh, about that, now—I mean, if you want, we could—”

“I look forward to your arrival! Ah, that is, when should I expect you? I—I assume you’ve been rather preoccupied as of late?” There was an edge of desperation in Ford’s voice that Stanley hoped he was misreading.

“Uhh… I mean, yeah. You—you know me. I’ve been here and there.” _Trying to lay low and not get banned from any more states. “_ Look, Ford, you know how Ma can get sometimes when she gets an idea in her head, ‘n I know you don’t wanna do this, so why don’t we… We can just…just _not_ , and tell ‘er we _did_ , and we can both go about our own business and I’ll stay outta your hair, okay?”

Neither man said anything for a long few moments, and Stan vaguely began to wonder if he’d been hung up on.

“I… I’d like for you to come, Stan. It… would mean a lot to me.”

“Dammit.” Stan hoped Ford hadn’t heard that.“...Sure. Yeah, yeah, I’ll I guess I’ll see you soon, hey?” Stanley’s stomach was doing somersaults. He was going to waste the money he’d spent on dinner and empty his stomach right in the middle of a deserted parking lot.

“Right! Yes! Iiiii’ll see you shortly!”

Stanley stared numbly at the phone receiver long after the line went dead and the incessant buzzing had faded to a faint drone. This was not how he expected the night to go. He shouldn’t have called his ma. It was a dumb idea. Probably up there with one of the dumbest. A short, hysterical bark of a laugh bubbled up from the back of his throat. It wouldn’t be the first time since his childhood that he questioned his mother’s supposed clairvoyance. Only she could make off-the-wall decisions that could manage to pan out. It was a wonder she didn’t gamble. Stan shook his head and jogged back to his car, peering into the backseat. She was still asleep. Good. He let himself in and eased the driver’s seat back with a slow creak. Maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to get himself some sleep before shit would surely hit the fan.

≈ 

Stan awoke much later, though still too soon in his opinion, as sunlight began to punch its way through the glass of his windshield. He shifted uncomfortably and sat up, trying to stretch his still back in the seat. His eyes darted back towards a small movement. His child was awake, and likely had been for a while, if the pile of crumpled and folded crayon-covered menus was any indication.

“Tryin’ your hand at origami, huh?” he forced a chuckle, unsure as to why the sight caused a surge of panic to course through him.

“I can make a hat.” She held up a misshapen menu as proof.

“Well, look at that! Remind me to show you how to make a cootie catcher sometime.”

“Yeah!” Stan gave a genuine smile as he let his seat back up and looked behind him, throwing a quick glance at the twice-damned payphone. 

“How’s about we figure out where we are now, and go from there?” he asked, more to himself than anything.

“Cheyenne.” His daughter hummed, gesturing to the welcome sign behind them with a handful of crumpled paper. Stanley blinked. Something here was giving him pause, but he couldn’t quite place a finger on what it was.

“Right. Cheyenne, Wyoming?”

She shrugged. “Is that where Cheyenne is?”

Damn, how had he driven that far without realizing it? No wonder he’d actually managed to get some sleep for once.

“Daddy, where’re we goin’?” his little girl brought him back from his thoughts. Stan stayed silent for a moment.

“How does Oregon sound?” 

“What’s in Oregon?” the child sounded as apprehensive as he felt. Who knew, maybe clairvoyance really did run in the family.

“We’ll have to figure that out once we get there, I guess!” he forced a smile, hoping it would be enough to soothe his little girl. Her focus fell to her hands in her lap.

“Okay, Daddy.” She mumbled. This was going to be a _long_ drive. He sat for a moment to steel his nerves, and then started the ignition. Hesitantly, he maneuvered the Stanleymobile out of the lot and onto the highway once again, his brow furrowing with worry. Why the hell was he agreeing to this? He should’ve put his foot down and said no. It would’ve disappointed his mother, but when did he stop doing that to begin with? She should be used to that from him by now.

She had been right, though. Ford did sound off. Maybe he had done some more sci-fi dimensional bullshit and gotten himself in trouble again. A shiver ran down Stan’s spine. There was no way in hell he could help. He fucked it up last time, and he’d fuck it up again somehow. 

He probably should’ve ignored that portal thing and stayed in Ford’s weird ass sci-fi hellscape when he had the chance. Stanley shook his head and pushed down on the gas pedal. It probably wouldn’t do for him to stall this whole thing, even if he wanted to. 


	2. With such unrest, what sleep can come?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I wake in dreams, a route with vision_  
>  _Poorly end of made decisions_  
>  _Of the fears I'd slain that now have risen_  
>  _With such unrest what sleep can come?_  
>  Such Unrest—Brown Bird
> 
> Ford's quite confused by the situation he finds himself in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! I hope y'all like it.

Stanford Pines fidgeted with the pen in his hand, twirling it between his fingers as his other hand gripped his hair. He couldn’t believe it. He’d found Stanley. Or rather, his mother had done so after he’d broken down and called the woman after who knows how long, but those details were unimportant. He’d been trying to contact his brother off an on for years with no success. He’d looked through countless records and found nothing on Stanley for over a decade. Save for a few mentions of convictions and various bench warrants from years prior, his contacts in the shadow government had even come back empty-handed. It was as though he’d stopped existing altogether. For a long while, he’d been certain his brother had died.

 _That probably would have been my fault, had it been the case._ No, that was wrong. If Stanley had just _listened_ to him, then none of this…unpleasantness would have ever happened.

_Regardless, you were still the one who pushed him through._

It had been an accident.

Accident or not, it changed nothing. Hadn’t he been the one to say that before? Stanford had sent his brother into a realm of unimaginable horrors for three long years, and it was up to Stanford to make it up to his brother, even if it was almost six years later.

 _We’re probably even, as it stands._ The ugly part of his mind offered. He squashed that thought with a grimace. Ford doubted they’d be even for a while yet. The nightmare realm couldn’t have been a walk in the park. _It couldn’t have been that bad for him if he agreed to come back. Fiddleford was only there for a few seconds, and we haven’t spoken since._

“Oh, shut up.” He growled to the empty room. He wished he could’ve gotten rid of his conscience too when he put in that metal plate. He’d gotten rid of the dream demon, but it seemed like his personal ones were there to stay.

Ford didn’t have time for this nonsense. His brother had called him—actually _called him—_ and agreed to come. This time, he wasn’t going to let things go sour. The portal was gone—every single bit of it had been destroyed—and he’d managed to contain and dispose of the rift he’d creating upon restarting the damned machine.

This time, he was going to do his best to make amends. He’d make sure he did. Starting that night, Ford would begin to clear out his guest room, which currently served as extra storage for various experiments. The entire house had become extra storage space for his equipment, if he were honest with himself. After taking care of the rift, he’d thrown himself headlong into everything he could. He had a stack of papers waiting to be published that would probably last him the rest of his life. Anything to keep his mind elsewhere.

Anywhere but the dazed, haunted look in his brother’s eyes when he finally stumbled back through to home. Anywhere but the resigned look of disappointment he’d worn, followed by the look of confusion that appeared a few days later. Stanley had kept his head down and his mouth shut, and, only a few days later, had hopped into the Stanleymobile and left. It was disconcerting for Ford to suddenly feel this level of concern for his brother. It had become near impossible for Ford now to not know where his brother was and to remain unbothered. He’d assumed his brother was fine before. He couldn’t tell himself the same lie anymore. Stanley was not okay. He couldn’t be, and, as much as it pained him to admit, he hadn’t been okay before. Not for a long time. Ford had gone through his brother’s sparsely filled duffel bag and the Stanleymobile after he’d…disappeared. There was nothing in that car wasn’t worn out, and judging by the sheer amount of trash he’d found stuffed under the seats, he’d had to have been living in it. He could only hope with a sharp pang of guilt that Stanley had managed to turn everything around once he got back home. He was resourceful. He had to have managed it.

_Resourceful isn’t living out of a car._

“Shut up.”

 _Your brother was homeless for ten years, and he’s likely been homeless for ten more._ Ford wanted to be sick. He haphazardly began tossing items into boxes, not caring if they entered with a crack. Everything would go right for once, and he’d damn well make sure of it. Fate could go fuck itself.

≈

Not for the first time that day, Stanley wondered why he was going through with this. He could easily just go on past Oregon, or turn around and wind back around towards New Mexico—no, he had a warrant out there. Maybe northern California. His expression soured. The entire state seemed to have lost its appeal after he ran into (and lost) Carla again. He guessed the child in the backseat was as good a consolation prize as any, though.

The child in question was idly kicking her legs back and forth while trying to look out of the backseat window—she was too short to see anything but blank sky. Granted, that was probably the most interesting part of this dull view, but she wouldn’t have known that.

“You holding up back there?”

“Yeah.” She hummed, still straining her neck to see. For a three-year-old, she was remarkably mellow. How was she so calm and patient? Stanley was pretty sure that wasn’t normal. He’d never been able to sit still like she did when he was her age. Granted, when he was her age, he’d had beaches and boardwalks and a small, cramped apartment to explore. Large though it was, she could only move so far in the backseat of the Diablo.

Maybe she would’ve been better off with Carla and whoever she was with now. His grip tightened on the wheel. Carla hadn’t wanted her ~~or him either~~. If he hadn’t begged and pleaded and promised to take her, she wouldn’t even _exist_ , most likely. With him, they at least had each other ~~even if he was ruining her and they only had _each other_ and and~~ and that was better than her being _nothing_ ~~but what if it wasn’t?~~ A frustrated hiss brought him back to his senses and he was surprised to realize that the noise was coming from his own mouth.

“It’s you and me against the world, Stella Pines.” He mumbled, glancing up into the rearview mirror to see a little grin directed his way. “You and me against everyone else.”

≈

The closer the pair got to Gravity Falls, the more certain Stan became. He was certain this was a bad idea and that he should turn around. That he just had to swerve to miss a three-headed deer was only the icing on the cake.

“Fuck this town,” he whispered under his breath, ignoring the soft giggling behind him.

“You’re not s’posed to say bad words, Daddy.”

“Yeah, well, _you’re_ supposed to be asleep. It’s nearly eleven.”

“You jus’ spun the car ‘round, like, a lot! I can’t sleep through all that _and_ a really weird goat. Unless I dreamed the goat.”

“You definitely dreamed the goat.” Stan bluffed. Shit, had it been a goat? Knowing this town, it was probably both.

He eased the car onto the shoulder and leaned back against the headrest with a sigh. “Well, Daddy’s tired and he’s gonna take a breather for a minute to stretch his legs. You should try to go back to sleep, pumpkin.” He turned and stretched, his back popping as he looked into the dim backseat. His little girl’s eyes were already drooping.

“Eew! But what if the goat comes back?”

“If there was a goat, which there isn’t, I’d punch it.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

Stan chuckled. “Go back to sleep, honey.”

“ ‘Kay.” Stanley waited for her eyes to close and her breathing to even out before unfolding himself up and out of the driver’s seat and into the brisk night air. He was getting too old for this, he mused as he fumbled in his jacket pocket for a stale cigarette. Once lit, he took a long, slow drag, holding it in for a few seconds before letting out a shaky exhale. This entire situation was ~~fucked~~ less than desirable. Here he was, a few miles away from his brother’s house and surrounded by whatever that…thing just was, and just as unwilling to stay here with _it_ as he was to actually go and see his _twin._ The twin who hadn’t wanted to see him last time, not really, but who’d apparently changed his mind, if his mother was to be believed. She probably wasn’t. Not really. Ford either, probably, since he’d sounded so strange over the phone.

A semi truck chose that moment to barrel past the Stanleymobile, missing Stan by what felt like inches. It was decided. They wouldn’t be staying here to get knocked off of the shoulder. They’d head the rest of the way to Ford’s tonight. He only hoped he’d be able to find his way in the dark. His high beams were out. Stanley flicked the spent cigarette butt out onto the cold asphalt and watched it splutter out before sliding back into the car.

“Devil you…don’t know anymore, versus the devil you know even less.”

It was a little past midnight, he supposed, when Ford heard a spluttering engine and the unmistakable sound of tires on gravel outside his kitchen window. He was suddenly glad he’d picked the kitchen to finish up some writing in (though, with his study packed full of his excess experiments, he really had no choice). He jumped up from the table, banging his thigh in the process, and headed for the front door, pausing. Should he open it now? Maybe it was better to wait for Stanley to knock first. Or maybe it wasn’t Stanley, but some lost traveller—

Ford heard the muffled slam of a car door, followed by the creak of the wooden stairs, and, in his haste, yanked the door open while his brother was mid-knock. _Mid hesitant knock,_ Stanford noted.

“Stanley.” He breathed, suddenly winded. His brother’s hair had grown mangy and long, a far cry from the short-cropped buzz he sported when he’d seen him last. The unkempt mane seemed to have a life of its own, and was determined to break free from whatever he’d pulled it back with to fall into his face.

“I, uh. I see you’re still up, since you’ve got yer lights on, and all.” His brother mumbled as he shifted from foot to foot.

“I—Yes! Come in, come in!” Ford reached out to usher Stanley inside, but froze when the man recoiled backwards.

“Wait.” _Of course_. Of course he wouldn’t want to touch him, he—

“I…I need ta get… something out of the car first.”

“…Yes, o-of course.” Though he tried to hide it, Ford found himself feeling lost. What could he need from his car that he didn’t already have on him?

 _Try his belongings, you knucklehead._ But Stan didn’t look like he _had_ anything else. If anything, he looked more tired and ragged than the last two times he’d seen him. His eyes tracked Stan helplessly as he watched him unlock the car and climb into the backseat, and again as he carefully re-emerged with a lumpy bundle in his arms, messily wrapped in what looked like an oversized blanket. Ford’s heart sank. _He’s been living in his car again. Does he not have a bag? No he left the one here when he left, it’s probable that he didn’t come across another one—_

Stan was directly in front of him and shifted the lump in his arms. “I uh, wasn’t quite sure what kid of welcome I’d get this time, and, well…”

Ford’s shoulders slumped. “Stanley, I’m _sorry—_ ”

“Could we move inside? Kinda cold out here.” Stan cut him off firmly. He looked somewhere beyond irritated, Ford noted with rising dismay.

“Right. Yes. I… Sorry.” Ford stepped back to let his brother pass through the threshold.

“Yeah, well. Anyways…” Stan looked around uneasily, his eyes scanning the cabin for anything peculiar. _He’s probably wondering where I stashed the next monstrosity to get trapped in._ Ford thought glumly, folding his hands behind his back.

Stan let out a tired, heavy sigh and glanced down at the makeshift bag in his arms— _he’d need somewhere to set it down, of course, I_ —before speaking.

“Anyways,” he gestured Ford closer with a jerk of his chin. “I know you were just expectin’ me, but I got somebody I dragged along I figure you should meet, or whatever.” Ford’s eyes widened.

“Stanley, is this—”

“Go ahead.” Ford slowly, carefully, lifted the edge of the blanket. Pressed against Stan’s chest was a sleepy little face, which quickly scrunched up in annoyance and turned, trying to block out the light. Ford was dumbfounded. He’d never expected _this_. This was a baby. His brother had a _baby. When did his brother have a baby?_

 _“Where did you get a child?”_ Stan’s neutral expression quickly darkened.

“The Sears mail-order catalog. Where does anyone get a kid?”

“Stanley, I’m serious—”

“Her name’s Stella, thanks for asking.” Stan rolled his eyes, jaw set. Ford had the decency to look sheepish.

“Stella…Pines?”

“Of…What _else would it be?_ ”

“You decided to keep the S-name tradition going?”

Stanley frowned and hefted the little girl closer to his chest. “Hey, Stella’s a good name!”

“Daddy, you’re too loud. B’quiet, ‘kay?” She fussed, causing Stan to pause and smile down at the top of her head.

“Sorry, sugarplum. Daddy’ll be quiet.” He whispered against her fuzzy curls. It was hard for Ford to think of the word “daddy” applying to his brother, but his brother seemed pleased enough that it did. He suddenly felt uncomfortable watching their interaction and stood, stunned silent for a few uncomfortable moments.

“I—you probably want to but her to bed, I’ve set the guest room up for you, you—”

“Daaaddy, you saaid.” The little voice whined. Stan’s eyes lit up briefly as they turned back downwards.

“Daddy’s sorry, baby. He’ll try harder, okay?”

“ ‘Kay.” Ford blinked. Wordlessly, he made his way upstairs, vaguely aware of the heavy footsteps trailing behind him. He flicked on the light switch and let his brother inside, watching the haggard man gingerly place his child onto the bed, smoothing blanket out around her. In this light, Stanford noticed how dingy it was. The little girl stretched out and yawned while his brother planted another kiss on her brow, lingering before moving back to him. Stanford didn’t notice the look he shot back at her over his shoulder as Stanley followed him back downstairs and into the kitchen.

“So… I guess I’m allowed to talk now.” Stanley let out an uncomfortable chuckle. Ford wasted no time in interrogating him.

“You have a daughter.”

“I have a daughter.”

“I’m an uncle.”

“You’ve _been_ an uncle, Poindexter.”

“I have a niece.”

“Yes, you do. Look, Poindexter—”

“I have a niece and Ma didn’t even tell me. _You_ didn’t tell me—“

“Ma didn’t tell you because she doesn’t know, and I plan on keeping it that way.”

“You didn’t tell me, though.”

“Oh, what, was I supposed to work it into our weekly casual conversations?”

“Lee, that’s not—”

“Not what, Ford? Fair?” Stanley slumped back against his chair—when had they sat down?—and closed his eyes in an attempt to lower his hackled. “Life ain’t fair. I’ve learned that.”

“You left.” Ford couldn’t keep the accusation out of his tone.

“I had to, it’s not like you’d understand—”

“Then _make_ me understand it, Stanley! I finally get you back for you to just...leave unannounced one day, and the next time I see you, you have a _baby?!_ And you told  _no one?_ ” Stanley groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose as he let his head loll back.

“Look. Ford. I literally just got here. I’ve been driving for hours. I’m tired as shit. I almost wrapped us around some weird ass deer on the way up here, or maybe it was a goat. Jury’s out on that.” Can we _please, please_ wait to hash this out later?”

Ford swallowed thickly, trying to work the lump of shame out of his throat. “Right. You’re—you’re right. You must be exhausted. If-if you like, I can show you to the shower, I’ve got an extra set of pyjamas I could lay out—”

“You don’t have to do all that.” Stanley shook his head, his eyes unfocused as he stared off to Ford’s left. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I insist. In fact, I already did it.” He _had_ already done it. He hadn’t remembered that he needed to buy groceries, but he’d at least done this one thing right. He heard his brother let out a low sigh.

“Alright, then. Fine. Thanks, S—Poindexter.”

Ford couldn’t help but smile as he led his brother down the hallway. “As I said, I’ve already laid out the pyjamas and towels you may need, they’re beside the sink…” He began to ramble, hoping to talk over the whispers of uncertainty clawing their way through his mind.

≈

Stanford slumped as his brother shut the bathroom door, leaning against the adjacent wall. He was tired. More tired than he’d felt in a long while. Granted, with Stanford Pines, a level of sleep deprivation was to be assumed, but this… _emotional_ exhaustion was something he hadn’t felt in a long while.

 _That’s not true._ He knew it wasn’t. He just hadn’t acknowledged that he had feelings. He worked them away instead. It was likely that he’d felt this way for a while now, but now he simply had no choice but to acknowledge it. What had his brother gotten into for the past… Holy hell, he still didn’t know what his brother had been up to for the past _two decades._ He looked ghastly. Granted, the man hadn’t been a figure of healthy living when he’d…reemerged, but he at least hadn’t looked so _flat._ His brother was _dull._ As if whatever it was that had once made the man vibrant, Stanley had lost or pawned it along the way. _Though maybe it could still be paid off?_ Wishful thinking on Ford’s part. Too much time had likely passed, knowing his luck. He wouldn’t be getting that back.

He decided to take comfort in the rushing sound of water running through the pipes and down the drain. He had his brother here now, and things would get better—he could ensure that, now that the man was close-by. And his daughter, too, he reminded himself. _Unless he doesn’t want me to._ Of course he’d want him to help. It was only logical. But logic and Stanley never really got along. Besides, He’d left before, and he could leave again. He was going to _leave,_ just when things were beginning to settle and Ford was beginning to think that maybe, given more time, things really _could_ be resolved, and he would wake up once again with an empty house and a patch of yellowed, dead grass where a car once sat.

Stanford slid down, grabbing his fluffy curls in his fists. _Why did he leave?_ All Ford had wanted to do was make things work, hadn’t he realized that? _That’s exactly why._ A spiteful part of himself chimed in. He had _tried._ He’d given his brother the space he’d seemed to need, had tried to coax him gently out of the shell he’d built around himself, and had tried to _appreciate_ the other man. Ford had kept the Stanleymobile running in the little spare time he’d afforded himself, parked well out of the reach of Steve and had performed quite a bit of maintenance work the car had desperately needed ~~though Fiddleford could have done it better~~ , only for the man to hop up and disappear without so much as a by-your-leave. Stanley had been so… _spiteful._ Could Ford blame him, though? Ford would’ve liked to think that had their situations been revered, he himself wouldn’t have been nearly so standoffish. It was an accident.

 _It wasn’t his fault._ None of this was Ford’s fault. It couldn’t have been. Stanley left when they were seventeen, and what he did in those ten years leading up to…the _accident_ had nothing to do with Ford. Whatever mess his brother had gotten himself into in that time, he’d done on his own. And as for _that_ time, it all could have been avoided if Stan had _just listened to him._ Most of this could’ve probably been avoided if Stanley had stopped to listen, if Ford was being honest with himself. His brow furrowed into a scowl. His eyes had trailed to the crack between the closed bathroom door and the threshold and had lost focus as he lost himself in thought. He shook his mind clear and trudged off, dragging himself off to his own room. Whatever else he was thinking, Stan had been right. It could wait until later.


	3. Oh, But It Gets You Right Down to Your Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I got a feeling I just can't shake_  
>  _I got a feeling that just won't go away_  
>  _You've got it, just keep on pushing and push the sky away_  
>  Push the Sky Away—Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came out a lot longer than expected, which hopefully makes up for the fact that it’s lame and also took longer than expected.

 

 

Stanford awoke the following day with a feeling of unease he couldn’t shake. He had a niece. A small niece who couldn’t be over the age of two. Possibly. He was never sure with respect to these things. He’d initially hoped that he’d be able to work through his issues with Stanley and get them out of the way, and waste no time in doing so, but how exactly was he supposed to do that? Especially now that Stanley had a toddler in tow? Surely she’d take up a large amount of his attention. He vaguely remembered having to babysit his brother Shermie’s young son once and what a nightmare that had been. There’d been tears from both parties involved and he was never asked again. He shuddered. Small children were terrifying at times. Stan would probably laugh at him if he said as much. He’d always had a way with children.

He needed to talk to Stan. Ford glanced at the clock. 8:45 am. That wasn’t too early for most people, was it? He couldn’t remember. What was the rule Fiddleford had given him, no calls before or after nine? Or was it ten? He’d wait until ten to be safe. But what would he do until then? He’d made his decision, so pacing was unnecessary. He had a solution to his most immediate question already.

“Aha!” His eyes brightened. Breakfast! He could make breakfast for them all while he waited. Surely that would make this situation flow more smoothly. His feet led him into the kitchen, where he paused. Did he have the supplies for breakfast? He doubted he’d let things get _that_ bad. Maybe. Stanford opened the refrigerator and was pleased with himself when he found a half-carton of eggs. Less pleased was…whatever it was that had taken up residence behind the ham slices. He made a mental note to inspect the fridge’s thriving fauna at a later date. _Maybe I should clean it as well._ He grimaced.

In the pantry he found a stale but thankfully mold-free loaf of bread waiting for him and he cheerfully stuck a few slices into the toaster. Eggs, toast, ham… Omelettes? _Omelettes and toast should suffice._ He vaguely wondered if he still had cheese as he reached into the back of a cabinet for a skillet, jumping back as various pots and pans tumbled out. _It’s fine. I’m sure no one heard that but me._ After rearranging the fallen pots, he turned his attention to cracking the eggs, taking great care not to leave excess eggshell in the bowl. He remembered how much Stanley would complain about them whenever it had been Ford’s turn to help Ma with breakfast, though Ford himself didn’t see what the fuss was about. Extra calcium was extra calcium, he thought with a fond smile.

He could do this. Sure, he was out of practice—both with cooking for others and talking with them—but he _could_. Stan wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t wanted to talk to him at all… Though maybe he would have? How well could he say he knew his brother at this point? It felt like a cotton ball had settled on the back of Ford’s tongue and he tried to swallow it away. He turned his attention back to the eggs. Heat skillet. Whisk eggs. Place eggs in hot skillet.

_You’ve been apart longer than you were ever together._ Stir eggs vigorously, making sure to scrape the metal of the skillet with that of the spoon.

_There’s no way you could know him anymore._ Scrape harder.

_You haven’t known him since you were a child, and now he’s got one of his own._ Scratch.

_This was a stupid idea. You’re certainly full of stupid ideas, aren’t you?_

“Uh, Ford? What the hell?” Stanford visibly jolted, turning towards the intrusion. His brother stood in the doorway, eyeing him warily. Right. This hadn’t been a good idea

“I, uh. Breakfast?” he offered lamely, holding the skillet high. His brother’s eyes narrowed.

“Yeah… I hope you’ll pardon the pun, ‘n all, but uh. Those eggs are toast.”

“What?” Ford looked down to the skillet in his hands, and for the first time noticed the smoke gently curling upwards from the charred flecks of eggs he’d scraped back and forth. “Fuck!” he rushed over to the sink.

“Still suck at making eggs?” Stanley murmured after a few moments of silence. Ford sighed.

“Guess so.” Another beat of silence.

“Guess some things never change, huh?”

Ford ran a hand through his hair, pulling it away in distaste once he realized it was wet. “Look, Stanley…” Ford trailed off as he took in his brother’s tense posture. He seemed to hunch forward and rear back simultaneously, with Ford’s loaned t-shirt hanging from his body in a way Ford had never expected to see. Where had his brawn gone? He backpedaled.

“I was wondering if you and…” _Shit,_ did he just forget his niece’s name? His eyes glazed over. “I was wondering if you and Stella slept well.”

Stanley shrugged. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, thanks… Thanks for askin’.” He shifted from foot to foot, rubbing the back of his neck in discomfort. “I, uh, so, d’you… need any help, or anything?”

“Oh! No, thank you, Stanley! Everything is under control, I can assure you!” Stanley didn’t look so assured.

Maybe he was right for that, since immediately after, the forgotten toast popped up, completely charred. Both twins winced.

“I can fix it,” Ford mumbled, lifting the toasts with his fingers only to fling the hot bread across the countertop.

“H-haah! Hot! Okay, no, I can’t fix that.” He flapped his hand in the air, and popped in a second batch. Stupid toaster. Why did it even _have_ an incinerate function? What purpose did that serve? Who in their right mind would eat that—Ford’s internal diatribe was cut short by his brother darting from the room and up the stairs.

_Oh, shit._ Stanford followed behind his brother, skidding to a halt in the guest room doorway just as his brother scooped up his little girl.

“It’s alright, sweetie, I’ve got ya. It’s okay. You’re okay.” He murmured repeatedly, cradling the child close to his chest. Ford faintly heard sniffles as he watched his brother rock to and fro, his hand rubbing circles over the child’s back. “You’re okay, sweetie, you’re okay. Daddy’s here.”

“Where’d you go?” the tiny voice wailed. “I-I woke up ‘n-n-n you wasn’t here!” Stanley hiked her up to pepper her wet cheeks with kisses.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I went downstairs t’… check on my brother.” He let the sentence trail off into a mumble.

Ford watched as a tiny fist pushed against his brother’s chest. The child frowned up at Stanley. “You don’t got a brother.” She whined.

“Sure I do. Got two of ‘em.”

“N-no, you’re s’posed to have a sister. S’posed to be a pair.” To Ford’s rising confusion, Stan only responded with an “oh, my bad” and a kiss to her forehead.

“Stanley—” Ford’s whisper was cut short by Stanley’s quick shake of the head.

“Sweetheart, you wanna meet your uncle? Hm? Wanna meet my, uh… My brother?” Ford’s heart would’ve plummeted at the difficulty with which Stan seemed to claim him were it not for the promise of meeting his tiny niece. He stood stock still as the small, fluffy head turned towards him, following the trajectory of Stan’s chin jerk. He watched silently as her eyes widened, then darted to her father, then back to him before watering again. Stanley slowly inched his way closer. The child hiccupped and Stan quickly began to pat her back.

“Aw, kiddo,” Stanley sighed.

“H-how come you-you…”

“Daddy’s a twin, so me ‘n him both look the same.” Stella frowned up at him through her tears with a look that clearly said _don’t patronize me._ That look had their ma written all over it, Ford thought. He would’ve snorted had he not been worried that she’d turn that look on him next. The child turned less into Ma as she sobbed against Stanley’s chest. “Oh, hey, sweetheart… Are you scared ‘cause there’s two of us? We didn’t mean to scare you…” He took a few bouncing steps with her, and Ford followed behind him at a loss.

“Is…Is everything alright?” Stanley shrugged, ignoring the question in favor of mumbling to the child on his shoulder. Ford’s eyes widened as she lifted her head up—pausing briefly to wipe her nose on Stanley’s shoulder—and turned her watery frown on him. She quieted, save for the occasional hiccup and sniffle. Ford shifted from foot to foot under the scrutiny. Stanley took a few backwards steps closer.

“Can you say hello?”

“I, ah, hello there—”

“I was talking to _her,_ Ford.”

“Oh. Right, Apologies.” That awkward little exchange earned him a giggle and a watery smile. He supposed it was worth it.

Stanley nudged the baby. “Go on, pumpkin.”

“Hi.” She mumbled, punctuating it with a sniff. Ford’s tension eased slightly.

“H-hello, dear.”

“This is your uncle Stanford, can you tell ‘im your name?” Ford thought he saw a flicker of panic—or was it confusion? —cross her face. Such similar names and faces would likely do that to a child, he supposed.

“ ‘M Stella.” He jerked back into the present.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Stella.” As Ford wavered back and forth between offering her a hand to shake, Stanley took the decision from him by holding the young child out towards his hesitantly raised arm. With a start, Ford gripped her underneath the armpits and gaped, his eyes darting from his brother, to the child, and back. Stella’s scowl returned and she began to squirm in his outstretched grip, her little legs wiggling. _Oh, shit. She doesn’t like me._ He panicked. Was…was that suspicion in her eyes? What did she know? He took a deep breath. He was just overreacting. Bill wasn’t here. Couldn’t be here. He’d made sure of that. This was just a baby. A regular baby that happened to be judging him. She must’ve seen his hands. He wouldn’t want to be held by _his_ hands, either. He moved to set her down, pausing when he heard a loud whine.

“Easy there.” Stanley coaxed, arms outstretched. “She’s afraid you’ll drop her.

“I wouldn’t—”

“Yeah, but it probably feels like you’re about to.”

“I—She wanted to get down.”

“She’ll tell ya if she wants down. She just doesn’t like the way you’re holding her.” Ford looked at her, getting a scowl and a nod of agreement. Oh. _Well, then._ He slowly, carefully pulled her in closer as he’d watched Stanley do earlier, and was silently awed to find that she settled herself in.

“Is…Is that better?”

“Yeah.” He noticed Stanley’s own stiff posture relax with an internal grimace. _He_ did that. Was he really that disconnected from people? _Children are a wild card, though._ He mused. He stared down at the tiny figure and a slow smile broke across his face. A stray curl flipped up and tickled his chin. There must’ve been another tendril sticking up in his face. There was no other reason for the stinging in his eyes. He swallowed thickly. Tiny fists dug into his shirt and he began to hope that she wouldn’t wipe her nose with a rising sense of alarm.

Also rising was the smoke alarm. Ford had forgotten—he wasn’t sure what he’d forgotten. “Fuck!”

“Hey, language!” Stan fussed, reaching for his giggling child. Ford was too busy balancing her on his hip while simultaneously bolting down the stairs to have noticed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Stanley mumbled under his breath, running behind the other man. The twins slid into the kitchen, giggling toddler in tow. Ford heaved a sigh of relief. “It’s only the toaster. I thought I’d left the stove on.”

“The stove _is_ on,” Stan pointed out, “it’s just…not on fire yet.” He took the liberty of turning it off. “There. Now,” he pulled Stella from Ford’s arms, then gestured to the smoking toaster.

“Oh. Right.” Ford mumbled, reluctantly reaching for the smoldering bread. He flung it towards the trashcan, ignoring the flush of heat rising to his ears. _Well, that didn’t go as planned._

“Really, Ford, you don’t have to worry about—”

“How about Greasy’s?” Ford interrupted, noticing the blank look on his brother’s face. “I mean, well, Greasy’s is the local diner. They’d…likely do a better job than I can.” He rambled on. Stan shifted his weight from foot to foot while Stella stared at the smoking trashcan with curiosity.

“Nah, Ford, don’t worry about it, really—”

“Great! I’ll go get my coat!”

Stanley blinked. “Ford—”

“I’ll just be a moment, truly—”

“STANFORD.” He froze. “If we have to go out, can I, I dunno, at least have a minute to bathe my kid?”

Ford took in Stanley’s annoyed expression, then compared it to Stella’s scruffy but happy demeanor. “Oh. Right. Right. Of…of course.” Stanley gave him a stiff nod before turning away.

“Can I have bubbles?” he heard Stanley snort.

“You’ll have to ask Ford. It’s his house.” Ford winced at that. Of course she could, why would he care?

“HEY, CAN I HAVE BUBBLES?” echoed back into the kitchen, mixed with an “oh, holy Moses!” from Stanley for good measure.

“…Yes?” Ford called out.

“I can have bubbles!”

“That you can. Alright, little miss, let’s get you cleaned up.”

≈

Roughly an hour later, Stanley Pines found himself tossing various items into the trunk of his car while Stanford, nosy man that he was, tried to ‘help.’ Thankfully his daughter, darling child that _she_ was, had decided to keep the other man occupied by darting off in the direction of the forest after something she saw. The sight of the man bounding off after the little girl would have been priceless if it hadn’t been for the look of pure terror that gripped him. Maybe that had added to it, actually. He was lucky enough to be able to say that his little girl had a good head on her shoulders, toddler or not. She sure didn’t get that from him.

He took his freshly scrubbed baby from the frazzled man and strapped her into the backseat, then leaned against the roof of the car. And waited. “…You are getting in, right?”

“Ah! Yes, yes, absolutely!” The man hustled himself into the passenger seat and Stanley took his distraction as an opportunity to conceal a sigh. He slipped behind the wheel once more and glanced up into the rearview mirror, earning himself a toothy grin. That was right. He could do this. This wasn’t a big deal.

Stanley’s first clue that he’d lied to himself came when Ford, distracted by whatever was going on in that big brain of his, managed to forget that he was supposed to be giving directions.

“Oh, we should’ve turned there.” _What?_ “That’s fine, we can just turn around.”

“Pretty sure U-turns are illegal here.” Either way, he’d play it safe. In multiple ways, Stanley couldn’t afford to get a ticket.

It took ages to find a decent enough shoulder to turn around on. Stan eyed the fuel gauge warily. This trip was already over his ‘budget,’ he didn’t need to add another tank of fuel to the proverbial fire.

“Is it a left turn here? I suppose it also could have been on the right…” Stan jerked his head back to thump against the headrest.

“Y’know what? Don’t worry, I’ll find it for us.” Ford just hummed in absentminded approval. _Fuckin’ figures._ Stanley closed his eyes for a second and let out a deep sigh. He could find every other little Podunk diner, what was one more?

When the trio finally arrived about half an hour later (and what Stanley was sure should’ve been a 10-minute trip, tops), Stella was asleep again and Ford was muttering something under his breath that Stanley chose to ignore. He ran his hand over his face a few times before unbuckling himself loudly, startling the man beside him. _Good._ He slipped out of the car and slammed the door behind him. He was getting too old for this. His expression softened as he leaned into the backseat.

“Alright, princess, time to wake up.”

“No.”

He chuckled. “Stubborn.” She got that from him, for sure. Stan scooped his princess into his arms and eyed his dazed counterpart. “Sooo, are we going in, or what?”

“Ah. Right. Yes, of course.” He nodded, his posture stiffening. _Really?_ Stanley still remembered that pose. Ford was nervous about something and doing his best to hide it. Very nervous, judging by the fake smile.

“C’mon, it’s just a buncha small-town hicks, just like everywhere else. It’s not like there’s any reason to be all weirded out by ‘em.”

Stanley’s initial assessment proved untrue. These folks were _weird._ Nice and harmless, yes, but they were also just plain _strange._ The guy in the booth behind them was talking into a _turkey baster,_ for fuck’s sake.

“Mornin’, stranger!” the small man had popped into Stanley’s personal space before he had time to sidestep him.

“Oh, _holy Moses!_ ”

“No! Shoo!” Stanley’s panicked jolt had woken Stella, and she was not happy about it. “Bad! Bad!” she fussed, waving a tiny clenched fist in reproach. Stan felt oddly proud as the man deflated.

Then came the waitress. “Toby! What’d I tell you about scaring people off? Well, if it isn’t Mr. mysterious science man! Is this your brother? Are you twins? Oh, which one of you is the _evil_ one? Ha!” Ford cringed.

“Yeah, don’t expect me to answer that one.” Stanley mumbled.

“ _Ha!_ I like this one. He’s funny!”

The trio sat quietly in their booth, with Stella burrowing into Stan’s side while he tried to ignore Ford’s stiff, awkward body language in favor of glaring at the back of Turkey Baster’s head.

“Sorry about Toby, he gets excited sometimes. The poor thing’s got his mind made up that he’s gonna be the next big reporter.” The waitress shrugged and, spotting Stella, leaned forward with a big grin. “Well, hello there, sweetie!” Stella stared back blankly.

“Uh. She just woke up.” Stan offered.

“Aww, still sleepy? Don’t worry, I’ve got jut the thing for that!” the waitress—her name was Susan, if Stan had read the name tag correctly—bounced off and returned a few moments later with a glass of orange juice and a giant milkshake topped liberally with whipped cream and sprinkles. Stan’s heart rose to his throat. He didn’t order this. He couldn’t _afford_ this.

“Uh, ma’am?”

The waitress giggled, waving a playful hand at him. “Oh, just call me Susan!”

“Uh, well, Susan,” Stan grinned for added measure, “there must’ve been some kinda mix-up. See, we didn’t order any of this, or at all, actually—”

“Oh, don’t worry about it!”

Stan blinked. “S’cuse me?”

“These’re for little miss cutie here, acting all shy ‘n sleepy!”

Stanley gently nudged the child into an upright position while she rubbed her eyes. “Seriously?” his voice was wary. “Is there some kinda catch, or somethin’?” There always was.

“Aw, shucks, no! This is a sleepy little town, we don’t get that many visitors here, to be honest, ‘specially not any cuties like this little one!”

Stan gaped, then turned to look down at Stella. If this lady was nuts enough to give away free food, who was he to complain? “What do we say to the nice lady, pumpkin?”

Stella’s eyes peeled away from the glasses placed in front of her and she yawned before fixing Susan with a wide grin. “Thank youuu!”

Susan giggled. Yep, Stan had taught his daughter well. He glanced across the table at Stanford, who had resumed frowning past a spot on the glittery Formica tabletop. Stan looked up in confusion as Susan began to leave.

“Oh, wait, could we uh… We didn’t order yet.”

“Don’t worry, I already placed your orders.” What?

She inclined her head towards Ford. “Mr. mysterious science man always orders the same thing when he comes, but he hasn’t been by in such a long time, we almost thought he’d moved, hah! Anyways, you look like a bacon and scrambled eggs kind of guy, with extra hash browns on the side. Wink!” Stan froze. That _was_ what he would’ve ordered, if he’d had the money for it. As it was, he didn’t. This would cost a lot more than a small order of fries. His stomach sank.

“What’re you, some kinda psychic?” This was starting to get freaky.

Susan laughed. “Wouldn’t that be something? I’m not psychic, I just like to think that I’m good at what I do!”

“Yeah, you must be.”

“Oh, you!”

That was a good way to hike up someone’s bill. He’d have to remember that one. As soon as Susan moved off to check on the handful of occupied tables—it _was_ still early—Stanley kicked Stanford’s food under the table. The man barely held back a startled squawk.

“You, uh, you okay there? Kinda…kinda quiet. ‘Specially since this was your idea, ‘n all.”

“I-yes, yes, I’m perfectly fine. I just…” he trailed off briefly, worrying his lip before continuing. “I must admit, I hadn’t expected the establishment to be this densely populated.” Stan glanced around. Seriously?

“Well, they’re all here to stuff their faces, they’re probably not too worried about us stuffin’ ours.”

Ford gave him a wan smile. “I’m afraid I’m disinclined to agree.”

Stan closed his eyes and sighed, letting his head drop back against the booth. If Ford could just lay off it with the ten-dollar words for just _five minutes._ Yeesh. “What, so everybody here is just _dying_ to see you out and about, huh?” Ford hunkered down further in his seat, eyes darting around the room. Okay. So Stanford was still shy and paranoid as fuck. Good to know. His attention turned downwards when a sticky hand touched his arm. Stella held up a dripping spoon. “Are you sharing your milkshake with me? Thanks, sweetie.” He let the child guide the spoon to his mouth, tactfully ignoring the smear of chocolate she left on his cheek. He’d wipe it away when she wasn’t looking. He took a surreptitious glance at Stanford, whose startled eyes were busy tracking the waitress as she headed towards them with a fully loaded tray.

“Here you are!” she chirped. “One coffee omelette, extra coffee; bacon, eggs, and hash browns; and for the little lady,” she drawled, “pancakes!” Stella’s eyes widened as a small stack of pancakes with a whipped cream smile dropped in front of her.

“’S got a face!” she grabbed her father’s sleeve and tugged. Holy fuck, he could _not_ afford this. He felt a lump forming in his throat.

“Thank you. Really.” He grumbled out. When was the last time anyone had shown his daughter this much kindness? Or him, for that matter?

“It’s no problem, really. I gotta admit, I’ve always had a soft spot for kids. Cats too, actually. Cats ‘n kids, hah! Or maybe kids ‘n cats? Maybe the cats _are_ the kids…”

“Uh, right.” This was getting strange.

“So! What brings you to Gravity Falls? Here to help out with the next big _mysterious experiment?”_ she wiggled her fingers for effect, tucking her tray under one arm. Stan noticed the man—Toby, was it?—leaning over the edge of the booth. He turned to Ford, holding back a frown as the man visibly recoiled. This wasn’t gonna work. He’d have to turn up the schmooze. He was too tired for the schmooze.

He didn’t have a choice though, did he? They weren’t gonna get anything useful out of Ford but some suspicious facial expressions and he _had_ to keep up the positive rapport that was forming. These people were _nice._ They were nice to _him,_ of all people. He had to keep that going for as long as he could. Stanley put on the biggest grin he could and leaned forward.

“Nah, I came up here so Mr. Science here could meet this little cutie.” He placed a hand on Stella’s head and she looked up with a confused smile, her face smeared with whipped cream. “I dunno how much help I could be anyways, being the dumb twin ‘n all.” He ignored Stanford’s flinch at that. “Reckon I did pretty good on the mini me, though!” he gave Susan a wink and briefly—just briefly—thought about saying the word out loud himself, just as she did. He settled for turning to Ford. “What d’you think, Mr. Expert?”

≈

Ford jumped slightly as the attention turned towards him. He glanced from the waitress—what was her name, again?—to his niece, then up to his brother’s questioning smirk. “Ah… You did a wonderful job, I’m sure.” He adjusted his glasses, trying to hide his relief as his brother let out a barking laugh. Apparently that was the correct answer. What was Stanley up to? He felt his unease grow.

“So what _is_ the next big experiment, Mr. man of mystery? You’ve lived out there in the woods for years, but still no one knows what you’re up to out there!”

Ford pretended not to notice the pointed look Stanley fixed him with.

“What? Ford, you never told anybody about all that biology research you’ve been doing?” What? What was Stanley talking about?

“I—”

“Yeah, when we were kids he always had his nose in a book, learnin’ about plants ‘n animals ‘n all that jazz.” He laughed. “Always wanted t’go off explorin’ and findin’ all the little critters he could. Makes sense to be out in the woods for that.”

The waitress’s eyes brightened. “Oh, so _that’s_ what you do! Why didn’t you just say so?” Ford shifted under the scrutiny. “Find anything interesting out there?” His ears began to burn as his mouth opened and closed.

“Ah, well—”

“ _Unicorns!”_ Stella interrupted with a happy shriek. Stanford gasped. _How did she know?_ His eyes darted around the diner. Oh, no. It wasn’t safe. Bill could be _anywhere. W_ hy had he suggested leaving the safety of the cabin? This was foolish, _foolish—_

“Unicorns, huh?” Stan chuckled, reaching over to grab a napkin and wipe the child’s face. She let out a noise of complaint. “Y’think he found some unicorns? What do you know about unicorns?”

“They’re pretty!” She looked to Stanford for reassurance. He swallowed.

“Yes, well, that they certainly are.”

“ ’N they taste like candy.”

“I’m not too sure about that one— _ouch_!” Stanley kicked him again.

“They can taste like cotton candy if they want to. _Let her have it, she’s three!”_ he hissed. Ford glanced at his niece. Three? She was so _small._ He’d thought… He wasn’t sure what he’d thought, truthfully. Ford knew nothing about small children, other than that they could be judgmental and cruel. The waitress let out a full-bodied laugh.

“Well, if you catch a unicorn, you let me know so I can come taste it too, okay?”

Right. This was a small child. A regular, non-possessed, _normal_ small child with a _normal_ fascination with unicorns. Unicorns were well loved by children. They were still pure enough to meet their approval. Ford briefly wondered at what age he stopped meeting their criteria.

The waitress turned to Stanford and whispered the word “Wink!” conspiratorially. Was… Was she joking with him? No one had done so ~~since Fiddleford~~ in quite some time. He couldn’t remember how it felt. Should he like it?

His brother kicked him again and he jerked, fixing him with a glare. “Stanley, would you _please—_ ”

“Your niece is trying to offer you something.”

“What?” he turned to look at the child, who was staring at him intently while waving her fork in the air at him. He watched in dismay as a soggy bit of pancake dropped into his coffee.

“Well, I’ll leave you fellas to it. Wink!” she headed off to the counter with a grin. _Finally._

“Uh, no thank you, dear.” Stanford mumbled to the child, offering her what he hoped was a placating smile.

She only frowned and waved the fork more insistently. “Yes.”

He was being strong-armed by a toddler. He couldn’t believe it. “I—”

“Aww, are you sharing?” Stanley asked the obvious as he tucked into his hash browns. He himself glanced down at his untouched omelette. Somehow, it was still hot. He looked back up to his brother, pleading. There was no way in hell he was eating mushy, child-picked-over pancakes. He wouldn’t.

Whatever spark of charisma that had brightened Stanley moments before was gone. No more grinning. No teasing. Sitting across from him was a man who just looked worn out. One hand propped up his jaw while he stared listlessly down. The man’s gaze turned upwards and caught Ford’s own, a hint of annoyance hiding behind his hooded eyes.

“You gonna take the pancakes or not?” Ford apparently waited too long to respond, as Stan merely sighted and pulled the small outstretched hand towards himself and stole the proffered bite. The child, instead of seeming mollified, fixed him with an appraising glare. _Well, I fucked up, apparently._ She stabbed more pancake with her fork and held it up to him again. Stanford let out a sigh and quickly took the fork, returning it empty. _That… wasn’t as bad as anticipated._ He mused as he chewed. The little girl gave him a smile of approval.

“She’s like a little old lady sometimes, I swear.” Stan mumbled, a small smile playing at his lips. “Gonna make sure you get some of everything.”

Stanford was relieved to find that the remainder of breakfast had gone on with minimal fanfare—Susan had come and gone briefly for little chats here and there, and with her went Stanley’s exuberance and that brash, happy-go-lucky attitude he’d ~~missed~~ remembered from their childhood. Only Ford was left with the empty shell treatment, it seemed. It was remarkably disconcerting. But then again, he _had_ seemed reluctant to go out in public with him. _And for good reason._ He clinked his spoon along the inside of his coffee mug, lost in thought. The strange reporter from earlier returned to badger them but was quickly run off by Stella’s scolding. _Little old lady, indeed_. Stan’s shoulders squared and tensed as the little man scuttled off.

“Maybe we should leave? Before he comes back, I mean.” Ford offered. He was surprised to find that this made his brother tense further.

“…Yeah.”

Stanford absently reached for his wallet, a preoccupied frown in place. Oh. _Oh._ He’d spent the entire night ruminating about his brother’s likely homelessness, and conveniently forgot that it implied a certain _lack of money._ And what did Ford do? Drag him to a place where they’d have to _spend money._ He was an idiot. _An oblivious idiot._ He fumbled for a few bills, enough to cover their meals and a bit more, and flattened his palm across the table as he stood. “I think he’s coming this way.” He fibbed. Stanley muttered something under his breath and scooted out of the booth, child tucked under his arm. Ford watched as he carried her outside and placed her in the tired, worn-out car seat.

_At… At least they have the necessities._ That was clearly a lie. He kicked himself inwardly and folded his awkward limbs into the passenger seat. His brother soon followed.

“You think you can guide us back?” Ford blinked.

“Of course I can. Why wouldn’t I be able to?” He wasn’t sure why his brother snorted in response.

 

Soon enough, Stanford found himself guiding his brother down his driveway. “You might want to pull up a little closer to the cabin.” He mumbled. Stanley eyed him strangely, but complied nonetheless. He’d talked to him—as much as one could, at least—but Ford still didn’t trust any car to Steve after the incident with his own. As soon as the car was in park, Stanford hopped out and headed to the backseat. Carefully, gingerly, he unbuckled his niece and plucked her from the car. He ignored the confused look passed between parent and child in favor of carting her to the front door. It wasn’t safe for any of them out here.

“Wanna get down!” He was a bit surprised as he looked down at the girl leaning as far away from him as she could, angling her body towards the tree line. _Hell no._

“Oh, h—” he cut himself off. “…No.” He shook his head, raising an eyebrow as she contorted in his grip to look at him.

“Wanna get down please?”

“I’m afraid that’s not the best idea.”

“But I wanna.” She stared blankly.

“Yes, however—”

“But I said please.” _And?_ How was that supposed to change anything?

“Are you planning on heading towards the forest?”

“Yeah.” _Straightforward._ He commended her for her honesty.

“The forest is dangerous, you might get hurt.”

“But I saw somethin’.”

He tensed. “ _What did you see?_ ” Stella let out a big huff.

“I dunno, you won’t lemme go see. It was shiny.”

Stanford was conflicted. Could it possibly have been pixiecorn? He’d been trying to study the elusive little bastards for weeks now, but he hadn’t been able to get close enough to them before they would flit off. Maybe they were drawn to children? They were certainly pure of heart… He turned to look at Stanley, who leaned against his car with his arms folded. He cocked an eyebrow.

“It was _shiny,_ Ford.” He drawled.

“I, well… I suppose… _Maybe_ we could inspect it, if your father allows. But I’ll carry you over there, all right? No running off.”

To his surprise, Stan gave him a brief nod. His shock must’ve shown on his face, because Stanley immediately rolled his eyes. “For f—you’re literally going about ten yards away. Where I can _see you._ Now, go, before—”

“Pinky promise?”

“—she makes you pinky promise.” Stan finished.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, dear. I mean—”

“ _Pinky. Promise._ ” She scowled and shoved a tiny little finger in his face, nearly poking him in the nose. Stanford’s eyes crossed as he squinted down at the small hand.

“Holy shit.” He counted six little fingers.

“That’s a bad word!”

He turned to his brother, who was sheepishly avoiding his gaze. “Was kinda wonderin’ how long it’d take you to notice. Now ya can stop bein’ so shy ‘n funny about your hands.”

Seriously? Was this some sort of a _game_ to him? His brother deserved a punch in the face for that. His hands had been a source of ridicule for him their entire lives and now his little niece would have to face the same problems _he_ had growing up, and Stanley had the gall to turn it into some sort of a _practical joke?_ He needed to sit down. Stanford slowly lowered himself onto the front steps, setting the child in his lap. Stella wiggled in his tight grip.

“I like hugs, but you said we can _goooo!_ ”

Stan sighed. “Give ‘im a minute, sweetie, he’s havin’ a moment.”

“…Is he sad?”

“You’ll have to ask him, pumpkin, not me.”

“Hey, why’re you crying?” He was startled by the tiny hands patting his face.

“…I don’t know.”

“So can we go look at the sparkly now?”

Ford was silent for a moment.

“Yes. Yes, we can go look.”


	4. You Know I'm A Stranger (and I'm So All Alone)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You know how it feels, you understand_  
>  _What it is to be a stranger_  
>  _In this unfriendly land_  
>  _Here's my hand_  
>  _Take it, darling_  
>  _And I'll follow you_  
>  Lead Me On—Bobby Blue Bland

When Stanford returned with Stella in tow, he looked somewhere between confused and pissed off. Stella, on the other hand, looked quite content to be hanging onto the other man’s trench coat lapel.

“Didja have fun, little bit?”

“We found the shiny!”

Stan let his eyebrows shoot upwards. “You found the shiny? Was it pretty?”

“Kinda!”

“Well, I’m glad.” He pointedly ignored Ford’s glare as he reached for his kid. He was surprised to find that the man’s arms tightened protectively, automatically, before he relaxed enough to pass her off. Stan smiled despite himself as the girl’s head came to rest against his shoulder. “Was it pretty, Uncle Ford?” he challenged, raising an eyebrow.

“…Remarkably so. Though I must admit, it came as _quite a shock,_ as I was given _absolutely no forewarning to process such a sight._ ”

Really? Was all this because he cried just now? Stanley rolled his eyes. “Don’t see why you’d need it, but at least the two of you had fun, I guess.”

“That would imply a more welcome surprise.”

Stan set his jaw. “You sayin’ it’s bad?”

“No. _No._ ” Ford shook his head vehemently and sighed, running a hand through his fluffy curls. “I just… I wouldn’t wish that on _anyone,_ okay? Least of all—

“Finish that thought later.” Stanley cut the man off, turning slightly away. He would have turned and walked away completely, but it wasn’t as though he had anywhere to actually go, other than his car. _Can’t just invite yourself into another man’s house. Not when you’re arguin’ with him._ He heard the man shuffle his feet.

“Right. Right. You’re right. Apologies.” Stanley’s nostrils flared briefly and he jerked his chin in acknowledgement. Even _he_ could hear the distinct lack of sincerity.

“You’ve got glitter in your hair.” He mumbled, running a hand across Stella’s head to pick out the flecks. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Stanford aggressively muss his hair and shake his head back and forth, making his hair stand on end. Stan snorted.

“It appears the leprecorn makes its own form of dust. Awful creatures.” Stan was just gonna ignore that.

What in the fuck was a leprecorn, though? _No, y’know what, I’m not gonna give him the satisfaction of asking._ He settled for eyeing the man until he caught on and had the decency to look sheepish.

“Well. I suppose we should go inside?” Stanley let out a noncommittal grunt but followed behind him all the same.

≈

Ford led his brother through to his—he supposed it could be called a living room, now that he’d removed his equipment—and gestured to a chair. Maybe he should invest in furniture other than his book-laden worktable. _It doesn’t matter._ He reminded himself as his brother pulled out an empty chair and plopped the child down. He forced a stilted smile; it was bad form to fight your long-estranged brother in front of his toddler, that much he knew.

“Stella, sweetie, I’m gonna go get your crayons ‘n stuff out of the car, okay? Think you can hang tight for a minute?”

“ ‘Kay.” Stan gave Ford a vague jerk of the chin as he walked out. He followed his twin outside, taking care not to slam the door.

“Stanley—”

“Alright, here’s how this is gonna go. Make my kid feel bad about her hands and I’ll punch you in the face. Got it?”

“Punch _me_ in the face? What the actual fuck, Stan? Are you out of your mind? First you treat this like some kind of a—some kind of a _joke,_ and then you have the _audacity_ to talk about _me?_ ” Ford bristled.

“Joking? You think I’m joking? I—”

“You turned this into some sort of a _game_ for you to play, because you can’t—”

“My child is not a game, and don’t you dare act otherwise.”

“Stanley, _you’re_ the one who—”

“Oh, I get it. You’re pissed off because I didn’t walk in and go ‘oh, gee. Hello, Ford, this is my daughter and guess what? She’s got hands just like you!’ Well, I’m not gonna make ‘em into a big deal for her, because they’re _not._ I’m not gonna teach her otherwise by making a big deal about it and having you or anyone else react badly to it, _like you are now,_ and showing her ‘oh, there’s something wrong with this,’ because there _isn’t._ She’s absolutely perfect the way she is.” Stanley paused, running a hand along his face before gesturing towards Ford, the fingers of one hand straightened and pressed together as he pointed to him. “It’s _not_ a big deal, and people really don’t give a shit about anyone else unless you make them care. Everyone’s more worried about themselves than anyone else. See? _You_ didn’t even notice she’s got the same hands as you because you were too busy worrying about what a _baby_ would think of you. As if she _cares_. So don’t… Y’know, no one in the diner said anything about your hands, either, ‘cause nobody made it into a big deal for them _to_ notice in the first place. So don’t… Don’t even go there.” With a glare, he turned away from Ford and fumbled in his pocket to unlock the car.

Ford was speechless. His eyes followed Stanley slowly as he rummaged through the backseat, reemerging with a fistful of half-used crayons and various crumpled sheets of paper. He kicked the door shut with his heel and silently stalked inside.

Ford leaned against the side of the car, his hands folded in front of him. He stared down. The door creaked, then slammed shut behind his brother. _Damn it._ Had he just fucked up? It was likely. He didn’t want to think about that. So Stanley was more cognizant of things than he’d initially thought. It was unsettling. _Why, to think that he was capable of any sort of rational thought or foresight?_

He was wrong, though. Stanford had never thought poorly of his hands until they’d entered school-age territory and his brother’s nonchalance was drowned out by _absolutely everyone else_. The world was full of cruel children who grew up to become cruel, ostracizing adults, who then went on to complete the cycle and produce more cruel offspring. Nothing would change. She’d be just as shunned as he was, with the added insult of her father’s casual disregard. It wouldn’t make a difference.

 _Maybe it would._ Had his own parents made it into a non-issue? Or had they preemptively consoled him about his unformed insecurities, as if they themselves needed the reassurance? Who was he kidding? His father didn’t care about consoling him. The man had always made it clear that he had the utmost ~~disdain~~ disinterest in his children, especially if they “served no use” to him. ~~Like Stanley.~~ The number of digits mattered as little to that man as his sons did combined. _Fuck._ His gaze trailed up towards the front door. He still wasn’t sure that his brother was doing the child any favors. He still wanted to punch him. _But why, though?_ Was he still mad at him? He couldn’t tell. His feelings of anger and betrayal, followed by guilt and shame had colored his perception of the man for years. They probably wouldn’t fade any time soon. _Would that I were colorblind, in that respect._ He snorted. He should probably head inside.

Ford eased the door open and shut, then headed directly for the kitchen. _I’m not avoiding Stanley._ Really, he wasn’t—he just needed to clean the mess he’d made earlier. Truly. After all, he did promise to inspect the fridge. He’d also need a list of supplies to gather from the grocery store. From the looks of the fridge, he _really_ hadn’t properly handled grocery shopping in quite some time. Despite his resolve, the sounds from his living room—he’d really have to get used to calling it that, he supposed—lured him to distraction. Faint giggles mixed alongside his brother’s low voice, his words blurred and obscured by the soft, gentle tone he spoke in. Ford didn’t think he’d ever heard Stanley speak so gently. He’d always been entirely rough-and-tumble in his mannerisms, with the boisterous voice to go along with it. He couldn’t imagine Stanley doing anything gently. It was disconcerting. He found himself leaning against the kitchen threshold, peeking across the hallway into the room. Stanley sat hunched, leaning over the table as he watched the child scribble over a sheet of paper. A grin broke across Stanley’s face.

“That’s real good, kiddo. Real nice.”

“Yeah!” The child beamed up at her father, climbing to her knees to bounce in the chair. She picked up a stubby red crayon. “This is gonna be a chicken.”

“A chicken, huh? I bet it’s gonna be the best chicken.”

“Mmm hmm.” She scribbled what looked like a jagged-edged blob from Ford’s vantage point, then dropped the crayon, satisfied. “Daddy, how do you draw a horse?”

Stanley sat up a bit, blinking. “Oh, geez, I dunno, sweetie. Daddy can’t draw as good as you can.” It took all of Ford’s willpower to refrain from correcting him from a distance. “I mean, it’s kinda round like an egg, but with legs?” _Yikes, Stan._

“Egg legs?”

“Yeah, somethin’ like that.” Okay, no. That was decidedly not going to fly with Ford. He inched closer to the pair, but stopped short in the proper doorway. Such an intrusion was likely unwelcome. He shouldn’t intrude. But then again, his niece _did_ want to learn to draw a horse… _Oh, fuck it, it’s my house. I can go where I want_. He eased his way inside the room, clearing his throat.

“I could…help you. To draw a horse. If…If that’s okay.” His eyes eased over to Stanley as he did his best to affect an air of nonchalance, which quickly dissipated as he noticed the smile fade from his brother’s face and the tension ease back in. _Shit._ Stanley remained quiet for a long beat.

“Whaddya say, Stel?”

“Yeah!” the baby chirped. Ford let out a small sigh of relief. He sidled up to the table why Stanley rearranged the girl’s papers and crayons. He cocked an eyebrow. These weren’t coloring pages, or even blank paper, like he’d initially assumed. These were the backs of various flyers and menus.

His observation was clearly unwelcome, judging by the glare he felt melting the side of his face. He cleared his throat uncomfortably as he leaned into the table. “Let’s see,” he mumbled, “first, we’ll need to work on the body. He took his index finger and pantomimed tracing an oval. _She doesn’t want to draw a realistic horse, right?_ Certainly not. This was a toddler. He watched her scribble a lumpy, oblong shape where he’d traced his finger. _Nope. No realistic horses here._ And now, you can add in the legs and tail…” Three roughly-hewn lines descended from the lump. “And—” Stanford was cut off by a giggle as his niece wiggled in her seat, reaching for something. A pink crayon? She hastily scribbled over the partially-finished equine, then drew in a smiling face. _Does it even have a head?_ The girl climbed down from the chair to run the few short steps to Stan. She shoved the paper at him, then preoccupied herself with balancing her weight on the leg he’d crossed over his knee.

“ _Ow._ Let’s see what we—ow. Ow Ow. Okay.” He made a show of examining the paper. “Seriously, Stella, that kinda hurts.”

“Sorry.”

“S’okay, sweetie. Hey, is this a pig? I thought you were gonna draw a horse!”

“ _No,_ ” she huffed, slapping a small hand against his knee. “It’s a pink horse. ‘Cause it’s magic.”

Ford was appalled. It wasn’t even _finished._

“Oh, I get it now.” He hummed appreciatively. “I have to say, this is one for the Stella Book.

The child beamed. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!” She began to chant, bouncing on Stanley’s leg once more. Ford took a wary step back. What in the hell was happening here? Was she normally this active? Was that normal? She’d been much quieter earlier, and when he’d first seen her. Stanley stood and lifted the child, who quickly complained, legs flailing.

“I wanna get down!”

“I know, kiddo. We’re gonna go outside so you can run around, okay?”

Ford jolted. That was decidedly _not_ a good idea. “Stanley, it’s not safe—”

“You think I can’t watch my own kid?” Something dangerous lingered behind his eyes.

“No. _No,_ I mean—”

“I’ll watch her. Like I always do. I saw you freak out about the woods. I won’t let her go that far out. It’ll be _fine.”_ He gave the child in his arms a quick heft. “Now, c’mon. Let’s burn off all that sugar from breakfast. Hit you faster’n I thought it would.” He headed for the front door, with Ford on his heels like a distraught puppy. This wasn’t a good idea. This was terrible. He’d have to extend the boundary lines out much further than they already were. It’d be a pain to gather the necessary supplies, what with Stanley repeatedly leaving the house without any sort of protection to begin with—

He was brought out of his thoughts by a shriek. His body tensed and he reared up, his posture harried and defensive as his wild eyes darted around their surroundings. "Oh." It was just Stella. _Of course._ "Running in circles?"

Stan grunted. "Doesn't take much. I lucked out on that one." He stepped off of the porch and stood in the browned grass, feigning an attempt to grab the child as she zoomed by. _She looks happy. I guess that’s what’s important here._ Peals of laughter filled the air as Ford watched her dart back towards his brother, who scooped her up and held her upside down by the ankles. He doubled over, blowing raspberries against her cheek.

He put on a good front, but Stanford could see the quiet resignation in the lines of Stan’s face. He may not have seen his brother in years, but he knew that look. He saw it often enough in the mirror, if he cared enough to pay particular attention to his reflection. _No, Stanley’s face is different now._ Certainly not so much that they weren’t easily recognized as twins, but Stanley’s face bore the evidence of several years of hard living. He heard his brother chuckle, bringing his attention back to the identical stranger in his front yard. _He doesn’t_ have _to stay a stranger, though._ Ford couldn't help the hesitant smile that played at the corners of his lips. Maybe these things could be resolved. It would certainly take time, but he hoped despite himself that the issues between he and Stanley were not insurmountable.

Stanley put the child down and cheered on her attempt at a cartwheel before sidling back up to the porch, leaning a respectable distance away from the other man. Ford held back a sigh, opting to worry his lip between his teeth for a few long moments.

“So…” He trailed away. No. If Stanley had wanted to share anything with him, he would have. As it were, he seemed more than willing to ignore him indefinitely, were that an option. Ford let out a sigh after all.

“No, Ford. You can bring the Spanish Inquisition later.” Ford gaped.

“I wasn’t… At least allow me to ask a _few_ questions. I’m completely in the dark here.”

Stan sighed in response. “Fine.”

“So…” Ford drawled again, searching for a question Stan would likely answer. “How have you been?” Ford winced as soon as the words left his mouth. Stan let out a dry laugh.

“Yikes. Busy, I guess.” He inclined his head towards Stella. “Those things take a lot outta ya.”

“I can imagine.” Ford began drumming his fingers against the side of the porch in a nervous staccato. “Is it…where was she born? Please don’t say New Jersey.” He added the last bit as an afterthought. Stan snorted.

“Hell, no. She was born in San Fran. June 22nd of ’87.” That fond smile returned.

“She’s quite small.” The smile left again.

“Yeah, well, not everybody can be tall, Ford.” He shifted, his hackles rising as Ford raised a hand in placation.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, Stanley, really. She’s just…smaller than I thought?”

Stan sighed. “Yeah.”

Ford had to get this back on track before Stanley shut down completely. “I take it you were there when she was born.”

“You kidding me? I wouldn’t ‘a missed it for all the money in the world. Almost punched the orderly who wouldn’t let me through.” Ford could see that happening.

“Do you have any pictures? I mean… What’s the Stella Book?” He hoped that was amenable.

A long beat of silence followed. Ford brought his hands together and cracked his knuckles, rhythmically lacing and unlacing his fingers as he fidgeted. “I’d love to see what she looked like.”

Stan leaned forward, as though he contemplated not responding, then nodded. “Yeah. Can’t believe you were payin’ attention to all that.” He mumbled under his breath, lingering for a moment longer against the side of the porch before pushing off to amble towards the Stanleymobile.

 _Well, why wouldn’t I pay attention?_ Stanford’s eyes tracked his brother as he made his way back to the porch. _That car has certainly seen better days._ Stanley returned, a worn notebook tucked protectively under his arm. He sat down on the front step, his chin tucked close to his chest as his fingers passed almost reverently over the frayed spiral-bound notebook in his lap. Ford eased himself down beside him, sparing a quick glance at the child currently tugging up his grass. _Good. Less to have to have cut come spring. I should probably invest in a goat._ He turned his attention back downwards as the notebook was carefully placed into his lap.

“Here.” His brother’s voice was gruff and he quickly looked away. Why was Stanley so uncomfortable? What was there to be uncomfortable about? It was just a baby book, albeit an unconventionally bound one. Ford studied the nondescript front, letting a finger trail along the warped and frayed edge.

“Well? Open it, if you’re gonna.” Stanley groused, one hand on the back of his neck as he stared down at the bottom step.

“…Right.” Ford thought it wise to hold his tongue for once. He cracked open the notebook and a smile slowly spread across his features. “D’awwww,” he teased, gently nudging the man beside him.

“Give it back if you don’t like it.”

Ford blinked. “That’s… That’s not what I meant. At all.”

“Yeah, well…”

Ford paused. Should he give the notebook back? Or would that be considered an insult? He couldn’t understand why Stanley was so keyed up over something so inconsequential. His curiosity won out, ultimately, and he began to pore over the pages in front of him. He studied a slightly younger Stan cradling a little pink bundle in his arms, looking equal parts lost, terrified, and thrilled. In another photo, his brother’s eyes watered as the newborn in his arms opened her eyes, presumably for the first time, and stared up at him. Beside it, tears streamed down his brother’s scruffy, bruised cheek as a miniscule hand pulled his pinky to her mouth. Was that a black eye he spotted? _Why is he bruised up here?_

“Quit lookin’ at the sappy ones. The nurse took those.” Stan interrupted with a grunt, unable to hide the affection in his voice despite its brusqueness. Ford ignored his directions and laughed at his brother pulling faces as an unimpressed and sleepy infant ignored him. He watched Stanley’s expression shift to sheer panic in the next photo as a tiny fist latched on to his long hair while a second pair of hands entered the frame, trying to coax the little hand open. _I bet that must’ve been a handful._ Ford snorted to himself.

He shuffled through more photos, stamping down his feelings of concern as the buckled notebook paper crackled with each turn from the cheap glue that bound the photos to its pages. He paused to frown at one photograph in particular. Stella was strapped into the backseat of the Stanleymobile, seatbelts crisscrossing across her as she slept, suckling on a hospital-issued pacifier.

“You took her home without a car seat.”

Stan had the gall to look affronted. “She’s fine. Look at her, she’s buckled up twice _and_ she’s covered in pillows. Obviously she’s fine, since she’s right over there, and all.”

“Stanley, it’s important that young children have car seats to ensure proper safety. And that’s one pillow.” He scolded. Stanley rolled his eyes and turned away, mumbling under his breath.

“Since when did you become a baby expert? She’s got a car seat _now_ , ain’t she?” Ford frowned, but bit back on his reply. He needed to change the subject to something…something else.

“What’ve you been up to? I mean, you’re living in San Francisco? That must be nice.” Ford couldn’t help the hopeful tone that crept into his voice. Stanley shook his head.

“Nah, Stella was just born there.”

“So where are you now?”

“Gravity Falls, Oregon.”

Ford let out a huff. “You know what I meant.”

Stanley shifted his weight, resting his arms on his thighs as he stared out. “All over the place. Been moving around a lot, picking up odd jobs here and there.”

“Jobs like what?”

“Does it really matter?”

“I’d like to think so.”

Stanley sighed through his nose, a long, drawn-out noise. “Just… Little odd shit here and there when I find it. Nothin’ special, nothin’ in particular.” He shrugged.

“But where are you living _now_?”

“ _Ford._ Just here ‘n there, like I said, I move around a lot. Never stay in one place too long. Doesn’t matter. _”_

“I think it does.” Why wouldn’t he just tell him?

“Not to me. Just… Let it go, alright? Please.”

Ford blinked away his frustration. “Alright. Okay.” Something was _wrong._ He _would_ find out what. Of that, he was certain.

“Sometimes I box.” Stanley added after several long moments.

“You still keep it up?”

Stan shrugged again. “It’s what I’m good at.”

“…Right.” Ford looked back down and flipped the page of the notebook, causing a lone sheet of paper to flutter out. He caught the page and held it out, frowning as he turned it upside down. “And what’s this supposed to be?”

“Shit if I know. She was like two.” Ford flipped the page over. Sure enough, in the margin of a diner’s menu, Stanley had carefully written _Purple Cloud Thing by Stella, 1y 8mo._ He put the sheet of paper back and continued to flip through the pages. Bath time in what looked like a dingy, generic tub. What might’ve been first steps or a first attempt at standing, with Stella clutching a stiff, mass-produced bed spread. Stella on a green patterned carpet with what looked like spaghetti in her hair and across her face, and a plastic microwave dinner tray in front of her.

Ford swallowed. His tongue was thick and dry. He flipped through more pictures of Stella grinning from her backseat seatbelt prison. “She’s absolutely adorable.” He managed a chuckle despite his growing alarm. These were all motel rooms. His brother’s child was growing up from the backseat of a car. _Fuck._ His worries were worse than he anticipated. His brother was homeless. _~~But you already figured as much.~~_ That his brother had a child, who was, by extension, also homeless, left him with a sharp ache he hadn’t been prepared for. Couldn’t have been prepared for. He turned the notebook’s cramped pages and stared without seeing as his mind raced, his eyes unfocused as they trailed slowly over iterations of his ~~homeless~~ niece’s face. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

He heard Stanley shift, letting out a puff of air. “Spit it out.”

“I—What?”

“I can see that brain ‘a yours goin’ a mile a minute. Whatever it is, just go on and ask it already. You’re gonna do it, anyway, so go on.”

“Where were these pictures taken?” Ford saw his brother’s hackles rise in his peripheral vision. “I mean, where were you living here?” he quickly amended.

“Don’t really remember. Like I said, we move around a lot. Don’t make this into a big deal.” Stanley warned.

“Can’t I just want to know what you’ve been doing for the past several years? Is that so unreasonable?”

“Kinda, yeah, considering.”

 _That stung. That really stung._ Ford wasn’t sure how to respond to that, or if he should. _He’s probably right, though._ Ford slumped slightly and leaned forward on his haunches, sparing a glance at his brother from the corner of his eye. The man had taken to hiding behind his hair, sitting similarly hunched.

Ford let out a huff to cut through the silence.

“I still forgot to get groceries.”

Stan snorted. “Seriously? You just... You _had the ability_ , but you just managed to _not_ buy food? Do you have _anything?_ ”

“I…may have used the last of the viable options this morning in my unsuccessful attempt to prepare a suitable breakfast.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ford.”

“You say that as though it’s completely unusual.”

“You think it’s _not_?” Stan shook his head as though to clear his mind. “Y’know what? Never mind. Just…get in the car.”

“What?”

“Whaddya mean, ‘what?’ _You_ got a car?”

Ford wrinkled his nose. “Well, no. You know that.”

“Then I’m drivin’ you to the grocery store.” He paused, eyeing Ford oddly. “You _do_ know how t’get us there, right?”

Ford sighed. “Yes. Yes, I do. I can get us there.” Stan wasn’t going to let him live his isolation down, was he?

“I’ll hold you to that.” Stan buried his hands deep into the pockets of his ratty jacket and stood, various joints cracking and popping as he moved. Both twins let out a hiss. How had that thing not fallen apart by now? Ford thought it impossible for the thing not to have dry rotted by now. _No, this one is different. There isn’t a…a burn hole in the shoulder_. _One that I put there._

Ford’s expression quickly darkened in shame. He did that. He’d branded his brother. He’d—

“Well?” Stanley shifted his weight from foot to foot, keys jingling in his pocket as he wiggled his hands in agitation. “Are we going or not?”

“Right.” Stanford stood with a mild grimace of his own. They’d have to choose better seating arrangements in the future, though he’d have to worry himself with that later. For now, he’d focus more on keeping his foot out of his mouth and the tenuous relationship with his brother afloat. That, and not getting them lost on the way to the supermarket. It really had been a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a looot longer than I wanted it to, but life happens that way sometimes!  
> As an aside, I should make a playlist of the songs I keep putting in the chapter titles and summaries. That would make sense. Yeah.


	5. All He Left Us Was Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Folks say Papa would beg, borrow, or steal to pay his bills._  
>  _Hey, Mama, folks say Papa was never much on thinkin'…_  
>  _Papa was a rollin’ stone,_  
>  _Wherever he laid his hat was his home._  
>  _And when he died, all he left us was alone._  
>  _Papa Was a Rollin' Stone_ —The Temptations

Soon after stepping foot inside the supermarket, Stanford Pines began to question the soundness of his judgment in agreeing to let his brother cart him all the way to the store. Maybe it was the fact that his kitchen was truly _empty_ that sealed the deal. It could have also had something to do with the fact that he had need to buy more than usual, especially with two additional mouths to feed, and as such, walking home with the requisite amount would have been less than ideal. Either way, the benefits did not seem to outweigh the numerous disadvantages. Yet again, people proved to be _weird._ Weird in a way Stanford found himself repelled by, surprisingly enough. Weird in a way he found unquantifiable. He’d never understand it.

Stanley seemed to alternate between being as uncomfortable as Ford himself was, and being in his element. Ford nearly got whiplash trying to keep track of his brother’s reactions before he decided against it. What was going on in that head of his? He’d have to go with nothing, if he were basing his judgment solely on the various odd situations he witnessed each time he ran across the man, who immediately plopped his overly-excited child in a basket and ventured off in the nearest direction that screamed “Away From Ford”—while Stella grinned in poorly-contained glee—as soon as they entered.

“Basket rides!” Stanley gently shushed the child, his eyes darting around at the other patrons as he wheeled her away from Ford. Maybe Stanley _did_ understand the dangers of being in public, ford mused. He grabbed a basket of his own and headed into the store, beginning the motions of completing his usual shopping list.

He worked his way through the list with the ease that came with regular practice until he reached the meat and dairy section. He rounded the corner in tome to witness his brother narrowly dodging a raw egg.

“Damn!” his brother swore while Stella, parked nearby, clapped and swung her legs in delight. The butcher stood on the wrong side of the meat counter with a cart loaded with primly stacked eggs by his side. He grabbed another egg from the top of the pile and _hurled it at his brother._ What in the hell was going on here? How had Stanley pissed him off so thoroughly? The butcher hooted with laughter as Stanley caught the next egg in a large fist, then carefully placed it into a sparsely-filled carton.

“Hah! Nice one, Stan!” Ford’s brother simply grinned in response and braced himself, legs apart as he prepared himself for the next projectile.

“What in the fuck am I looking at?” Stanford blurted out.

“Oooooh!” his niece cooed.

Stan barely spared him a glance, while the young butcher looked particularly bewildered. “Oh! There’s two of you?”

“Yeah. Now, you gonna throw that egg, or what?”

“You bet!” the butcher beamed and adopted a pitcher’s stance.

“Seriously, would anyone care to tell me what’s going on here?”

“Yeah. After I finish with this.”

“Daddy’s winnin’ eggs!” Stella piped.

“That’s right, kiddo, now watch ‘n learn.” He smirked, one hand darting out from his side to catch another projectile egg.

“We made a deal, so every egg he catches out of a dozen is free!” the giddy butcher explained, launching another egg that Stanley had to dive to catch before it hit his daughter. _He made a deal? We haven’t been here fifteen minutes!_

“And if it hits the child?” Ford’s annoyance crept up to the vein pulsing in his neck.

“If it hits Stella, then he gets an automatic free dozen eggs, plus whatever he already caught!”

“Right. I’m…getting away from whatever this is. Have fun, or whatever it is you call this.” Ford quickly pushed his basket away from the egg-splattered mayhem, vaguely wondering if he should collect his niece. That would put him in the danger zone, though. He had a feeling that Stan would intentionally miss catching an egg just to spite him, if given the chance.

“Bye bye!” Stella opened and closed her fist in farewell. He felt oddly compelled to return the childish gesture.

“Aww. That’s adorable.” He heard as he darted away. People were so strange.

More laughter trailed behind him. Ford found himself shaking his head. How was it that Stanley was able to build such a rapport with people so quickly? It was unbelievable. _And here he is, wasting it on egg tossing._ He heard an “ _oop!_ ” and a splat, followed by small giggles. With a disgusted sigh, Ford grabbed a gallon of milk and hurried down another aisle. There was no way he wanted to get caught up in this nonsense. Grocery stores were a waste of time. The less time he spent on distractions, the faster he could get home. The faster he could get home, the better for everyone involved. Grocery stores were hotbeds of potential uncomfortable conversations, unless your name was Stanley, it seemed.

Ford found comfort in the repetitive rhythm of his shopping list, only broken by the jarring, yet infrequent times he ran into his brother down various aisles, or heard his voice carrying from however many aisles away. He heard a childish tune sung by two draw near along with the rattling of basket wheels. Stanley stopped his basket in front of Ford’s own.

“What in the he-eck is all this?” he gestured to the half-filled cart.

Ford straightened his back with a frown. “What?”

“Do you even _like_ Toaster Pops?”

“No, but you—”

“Then why are you getting ‘em? _Put those back._ ” Stan took the liberty of reaching into Ford’s basket to remove them himself.

“ _Stan!”_ Ford hissed. Stanley cut him off with a shake of his head.

“Don’t make any sense t’ buy somethin’ you don’t even like.” He grumbled, pushing his basket onwards.

“I’m not buying for myself alone, I’ll have you know.” Ford grumbled as he heard the rattling wheels fade away. “But _fine._ No Toaster Pops.” He wheeled himself back down the adjacent aisle. “I’ll choose something else, instead.” A satisfied smirk crossed his face as he paused in front of the wall of cereal boxes. His eyes scanned over the colorful packaging, pausing at the Raisin Flakes. “Hm.” He pulled down a box. No, wait. Children didn’t tend to like that sort of cereal, did they? He inched further down. “Marshmallow Lucky-O’s?” he mumbled under his breath. “Surely a child would prefer this one.”

“Uhh.” Ford visibly jolted. “Yeeeah, man, put the Raisin Bran back and get some Marshy-O’s or Lucky-O’s or literally anything that doesn’t have bran flakes or raisins in it.” The helpful stranger eyed Ford oddly while he stood like a deer in headlights.

“…Oh. Many thanks. I…have a new niece. She and my brother are visiting. She’s uh—she’s three.” The stranger continued to frown for a moment. Ford wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to divulge the excess information. _This was stupid._

“Riiight. Wait, were they the ones catching eggs with Ernie in the meat department?”

Ford winced. “I’m afraid so.”

“Awww, they’re so cute! I shoulda figured. You ‘n your brother look exactly alike. Definitely go with the Lucky-O’s, then. Enjoy your company!”

Ford blinked at the back of the stranger’s head as they disappeared around the corner. “…Thank you?” Trust Stanley to do something so inherently _goofy and destructive,_ draw an audience for it, and then endear himself to said audience in the process. It was somewhat disconcerting, if Ford was honest with himself. _How does he_ do _that? Personality, indeed._ Their mother had been right.

He continued across the store, one ear to the air as he heard his brother’s voice carrying from a few aisles over. Good. He was picking out items himself. He hoped there were no projectiles involved. Ford gave a distracted nod of approval as he scanned the shelves for jellybeans. It wasn’t a trip to the grocery store without jellybeans.

“Okay, so we grabbed _this_ peanut butter ‘cause it’s the biggest ‘n it’s also on sale, so it’s the cheapest, too. These people must be crazy if they sell stuff all willy-nilly like that, but anyways, that gives us enough to grab a few cans of soup ‘n stuff too. Let’s go see if they’re nuts enough to put that on sale, too.”

“Yeah!”

“Not so loud, kiddo.” Ford heard his brother stage whisper, followed by another baby giggle. “Can’t be loud if Daddy has to make a break for it.”

“But you don’t!”

“Oh, y’think so? Huh? What about _now?”_ the clattering noise of the basket picked up speed and volume and Stella’s distant giggles grew louder. “Vroom!” Stanley barreled down the end caps, then screeched to a halt. Ford found himself cringing, fearing an imminent _crash,_ and was confused to look up to find Stanley wheeling his way towards him at a more moderate pace.

“Boom! Boom!” Stella added in her own sound effects as Stanley idly rammed his basket into Ford’s, looking disinterested in his own actions.

“What? Will you— _cut it out!_ ”

“I’m just followin’ orders. Ain’t that right, boss?”

Stella turned around in her seat and beamed at her uncle. “Boom. Boom!”

Ford supposed the basket antics were tolerable, in retrospect.

“Wow, it’s a good thing you can’t drive, Stel.”

“Yeah.” The child chirped back.

Stan let out a throaty, stony-faced chuckle and leaned forward, placing a kiss on the top of her head. “Soo…” he began. “Is that the last of it?” His eyes scrutinized Ford’s basket. Ford fought the defensive urge to pull it away from him.

“Uh, yes. I believe…I believe this should complete the list in its entirety.” Stanley rolled his eyes at that, though Ford wasn’t entirely sure why.

“Cool. So. Checkout, then. Come on, Pumpkin.”

Checking out was more of an ordeal than Stanford had anticipated. Not that there was much fanfare, not nearly as much as the egg throwing and the shopping cart speeding, which Ford was thankful for, but there was a good amount of disapproving sighs and anxious head shaking as the cashier scanned each item. Stan placed the divider on the belt and set down his few items, only to give Ford a look of outrage mixed with something he couldn’t quite place as Ford promptly removed the divider.

“What the heck are you doing?”

“Just put it with mine, it’s just, what? Four items? There’s no need to open a second transaction.

“Ford, _no._ ”

“What? It’s not an issue.” That just seemed to make Stanley more upset. Ford couldn’t begin to fathom why.

“That’s… That’s not the point, Ford, I can—”

“Stan. It’s all going to the same place. It doesn’t even matter. Just—”

“I don’t need you to—”

“It’s _not—”_

“Your total is $67.34,” the cashier droned. The Pines twins both turned in a brief moment of stunned silence. Stanford reached for his wallet while Stan looked on in silent frustration. He let out a sigh that may have doubled as a poorly contained growl, then scooped Stella onto his hip to place her seconds later into Ford’s full basket.

“You really didn’t hafta do all that, Ford.” He grumbled once in the parking lot.

Ford stared at him. “You’re genuinely pissed off. Incredible.” He couldn’t believe it. Of all the things he could’ve been pissed off about, he chose _this?_ Unbelievable. Ford walked alongside Stan as he wheeled the basket to the car, raising an eyebrow as he pulled the backseat door open.

“In ya go, pumpkin.” Stan grumbled as he fastened the child into her seat and began arranging grocery bags around her.

“Wouldn’t it be best to put those elsewhere? The trunk, for instance?”

“Nah. There’s stuff in the trunk already. It’s fine.” He mumbled back.

He had a perfectly good trunk, but refused to use it. Okay.

“Here, sweetie, can you hold this?” he handed the child a bag full of eggs.

 _A bag?_ Who put raw eggs in a _bag?_ Didn’t he have a carton earlier? Stan shoved the rest of the groceries around the car seat and in the foot wells, then pushed the empty basket way.

“Now.” He hummed, hopping into the driver’s seat as Ford slid in beside him. Neither twin said a word as Stanley fumbled and shoved his key into the ignition. “Alright. How does headin’ back sound, kiddo?”

“ ‘Kay.” She sang her affirmation, intently inspecting the eggs in her lap.”

“Careful with those, okay, pumpkin? Don’t want ‘em to break.”

“Yeah.”

Ford let his eyes dart to the backseat and couldn’t help the amused smile that spread across his face. “Oh, wait, turn right up ahead.” He blurted as he righted himself in his seat.

“Yeah, I remember. Thanks.” The last word was a barely-audible grumble hidden under a cough. Ford decided he’d take would he could get.

≈

The rest of the ride was made in near silence, stiff, though not entirely uncomfortable. The two brothers listened to the child in the backseat’s observations about the eggs and various objects surrounding her, while simultaneously avoiding conversation with and acknowledging the presence of one another. Ford was relieved when Stanley pulled up to the porch and parked with a small grunt as he stretched in his seat. He twisted in his seat to look back at the child while Stanford unbuckled and removed himself from the Stanleymobile. Once again, the man reached into the backseat to extricate his niece from her car seat. She clung to him like a leech, one little hand still holding her bag of eggs in a death grip. He carefully set her down on the porch and went to fumble for his keys before pushing the door open, doubling back to the old red car to pass his brother in silence as they both grabbed armfuls of sacks to carry into the kitchen. Stanley wordlessly sidestepped the other man as he headed back out the front door. Ford rolled his eyes and set down his load, meandering back to the entryway. _Figures. Of course he can’t—_

“What in the _fuck_ is that?” Stanley bellowed, followed by a small child’s squeal.

“Bad word!”

Ford scrambled and slid onto the porch, stumbling down the front steps in his haste.

 _“What?_ What’s _what?_ Oh. _”_ Ford’s lip curled and distaste colored his voice. “You again.”

“What the fuck _is_ it?” Stanley pressed.

“The leprecorn from earlier. I hate these stupid bastards. It would also explain why Danny Boy was playing a little earlier.” The creature was too busy rooting through a half-torn bag to dignify a response to the insult. It mangled the edge of a cereal box between its crooked teeth. “Oh, for the love of…” he groaned. “The cereal. The damned thing’s attracted to the cereal.” Ford grabbed the creature by its horn and used his free hand to pry the box from its mouth with a satisfying yank. “The stupid freaks of nature are attracted to brightly-colored, marshmallow-filled children’s cereal. Of course. I’ll get rid of the damned thing.” He moved to take a step back but stopped short, wavering unsteadily as his leg bumped into something solid. He looked down. Stella had grabbed ahold of his leg, wrapping one small arm around it while the other reached upwards towards him. “Sweet Moses, you startled me! Uh, could you give me a moment? I’ll hand you the cereal once I’ve disposed of this terror.” The toddler shook her head adamantly and began jumping as she reached for his arm. “I can’t pick you up at the moment,” his eyes darted to Stanley for help, “though, your father may be able to?”

The child let out a keening whine. “She wants the leprechaun, genius.”

Ford’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Absolutely not. These things are horrendous. Look at it. It’s objectively awful.” He struggled to lift his leg without knocking the child down. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, dear.” He reared back with the leprecorn in hand. The abomination seemed pleased with this arrangement, if the asinine grin and increase in volume from its horn served as any indication.

“ _NO!”_ the child wailed, her little hand clenching and unclenching as she stretched, the hand on his leg now patting his stomach insistently. Her eyes watered.

He stared down at the tiny hands. Tiny, six-fingered hands interested in an anomaly were reaching up towards him. There was no way he could, in full conscience, say no to that. He deflated with a huff, his arms lowering. He was certain to regret this, seeing as this was one of the _lamest_ things he’d had the misfortune to encounter, but he couldn’t begrudge the child. He didn’t want to be responsible for making a little girl cry.

She wrapped her arms around the multicolored abomination with a squeal, stumbling forward from the sudden weight imbalance. She dropped the creature onto the grass with an inelegant thud, delighted as it scrambled to an upright position. Stanford watched in befuddlement as the child wrapped her happy little arms around its neck—did it actually have a proper neck? He wasn’t sure if the blasted thing did.

“Does that thing bite? Not sure whether this is cute or concernin’.” Stanley’s voice brought ford out of his thoughts.

“Uh, no. It’s harmless. It did chew on my side burns once, though, until I threw it the first time.”

“Throwable. Good ta know.” Stanley reached back into the backseat and emerged with the last of the groceries, sidestepping his daughter and her new companion on his way back inside the cabin. Ford followed behind his brother, pausing to look back at the child in his front yard before stepping inside. “You seem…not entirely aghast?”

“It’s not the first weird thing I’ve seen. Didn’t expect t’see it here, though, but I guess it makes sense that there _would_ be some weird shit here, all things considered.”

Ford worried his lip briefly. “Yes. Right.” He supposed he _would_ have seen a lot more…intriguing things on the other side of the portal. He couldn’t begin to fathom what.

It wouldn’t do to ask now.

Danny Boy seemed to intensify outside. Ford ran a hand down his face. “I hate that thing. I hate that thing _so much._ ”

“I’m…gonna go check on my kid.”

“Drop kick the leprecorn off the porch, while you’re at it.” Ford groused.

“Make my kid cry. Right. On it.” Stan rolled his eyes as he turned his back. Stanford stared at the empty space his brother once occupied before staring back at the groceries. He could at least put away the perishables. By then a three-year-old would have lost interest in most anything, right? They weren’t exactly known for their attention spans. He couldn’t recall if his own had been any better when he and Stanley were that small. He doubted it.

He hesitantly put a few more items away, making sure to put Stella’s mangled cereal in the refrigerator, out of the reach of children, gnomes, and other such mysteries. Ford inched his way back to the front porch and peered out, spotting his brother sitting in the grass. His daughter sat between his crossed legs, with the leprecorn in a chokehold of a hug. Parts of its beard were in unraveling braids of varying caliber. Stanley must’ve helped her with the braiding. Ford commended him for even touching the thing without intent to lob it. He leaned in the doorway for a while, committing the oddly domestic scene to memory. _Substitute the leprecorn for a dog, and you could almost pretend nothing is wrong here._ His expression soured briefly at the thought. He could fix it. He’d find a way to fix it. He _had to_. If he could construct, dismantle, and then reconstruct an interdimensional portal, then he could certainly fix something as simples as…

As simple as years of familial discord. Right.

His eyes perked as Stanley stood only to crouch, tucking the leprecorn under one arm and settling Stella onto his hip with the other. He dropped the creature onto the porch as one would a cat, though it lacked such grace and landed with a thud and the scrabbling of hooves as it hustled itself upright. Stan watched it idly. “Whoops. Now, we’ll leave ‘im here and you can play with ‘im again later, okay?”

The child looked doubtful. “What if he gests lost?”

“He won’t get lost, kiddo. He found you once before, didn’t he? He knows where he is.” The child seemed appeased, if only slightly. “Alright. You ready for a break?”

“Okay.”

Stanley slipped past the other man silently, slowly making his way up the stairs. As his brother eased out of sight, Stanford took the opportunity to turn his attention to the nuisance on his front porch. “Alright, shoo. Go away. Go. _Go._ ” He waved his hands at the creature, but it proved ineffectual. The damned thing just batted its eyelashes at him, all the while sporting a slack-jawed grin. “Don’t you mock me.” Ford growled, backing through the threshold. He let the door shut in the leprecorn’s face with an unnecessary yet satisfying click. He had groceries that needed to be tended to. _A spot of coffee won’t hurt, either._

Stanford let the coffee pot gurgle as he shoved the last of the groceries into cabinets in a semblance of order. There. That was handled. Now, he just needed to come up with a better method of communication between his brother and himself. Since blunt questions didn’t seem to be as well-received as they had been when they were younger, he’d have to be indirect. Indirectness with an actual human being had never been his forte. _No_. He could do this. Ford didn’t _need_ questions, he needed solutions. He had enough evidence to base his assumptions on without more questions. ~~That wouldn’t stop him from wanting to ask more.~~ What was his issue? He suspected his brother of being homeless. Possible solutions included offering him money or lodging. Ford suspected the latter might be more well-received if worded delicately.

 _But then what?_ Stanford wasn’t naïve enough to hope for some immediate, all-curing happily-ever-after just by virtue of convincing his brother to live with him. They’d still have to talk things out. Ford leaned against the counter, resting his cheek on his fist. He’d need questions, after all. He spotted movement from the corner of his eye and gazed up, catching his brother easing into the kitchen. Ford jerked upright, his expression brightening substantially.

“Oh! Um.” His hands fumbled in front of the coffee maker as he procured a second mug. “Coffee?” Stanley stood still and silent for a few seconds.

“Uh, sure.” It seemed they would both choose to ignore the slight tremble of Ford’s hand as he filled the mugs. The two edged towards the kitchen table in an uneasy silence.

“So…” _Small talk. Small talk, Ford. Make small talk. Just ask something. Pretend you care. No, don’t pretend, because you do actually care. Well, you should._ Stanley shifted in his seat. “You said you travel around a lot.” Ford heard Stanley sigh as Ford stared down into his mug.

“ _Ford, I—”_

“What was your favorite place you’ve been to?”

“What?”

“Of… of all the places you’ve been, which did you prefer the most?”

Stanley stuck his tongue in his cheek as he blinked, eyebrows raised. “Well, huh.” Ford felt pride in managing to throw him for a loop. “Havana was pretty nice, what I got to see of it.”

“Havana? You went to _Cuba?_ ”

“Heh, yeah. That was…that was pretty wild.” Stanley seemed to frown behind the faint smile.

“How did you even _get_ to _Cuba?_ ”

“Ehh, was a bit of a whirlwind, really. Can’t exactly remember all the details on _how,_ but I do remember bein’ there. Real nice city. Lotsa charm. Lotsa beautiful women, too.” His smile became more of a smirk. Ford felt some of his tension leave. _That_ was more like the brother he remembered.

“I can imagine. It’s quite the fascinating country, I’m told.”

“Yeah. Pretty lil’ buildings all over the place, ‘n nice lookin’ cars, coffee, and cigars. Real nice.”

“So I take it it’s somewhere you’d like to revisit, given the chance.”

Stan let out a dry chuckle. “It was definitely nice, but I doubt they’d want me back!”

“You got kicked out of Cuba?”

“So? You say that like it’s outrageous. Been kicked outta lotsa places.”

“Yes, well, getting kicked out of a country is a tad bit unusual.” Ford drawled.

“It’s not like we’re supposed to be there in the first place, so is it really that big of a deal?” Stan grumbled. Ford was reluctant to admit he made a good point. “ _Anyway,_ ” Stanley drawled, idly eyeing the other man, “why’re you askin’?”

Ford blinked. “I was merely curious, is all.” Stan shrugged.

“Fair enough, I guess.”

“Where else have you visited?” Ford pretended to ignore the roll of Stan’s eyes.

“Buncha places. Mexico, England, Venezuela, Colombia…” he trailed off, while Ford latched onto the lull.

“Colombia? That must’ve been nice.”

“Not really.”

“I—what? Why not?”

“I was in jail most of my time there.” He mumbled. Ford’s tongue felt like sandpaper as he swallowed.

“ _Jail?_ ” Stanley looked discomfited as he shifted, resting his cheek on his fist as he glared at nothing.

“Pretty sure I remember sayin’ I’ve been to jail in multiple countries.”

“ _How many?_ ” Ford whispered.

“Ain’t really important now, is it?”

“Please.”

Stanley sighed, a long hiss through gritted teeth. “Four now.”

“What did you _do?_ ”

“I did my time, is what I did. Any _more_ questions, Your Honor?” He gave Ford a pointed look.

He had the decency to look away. “I…apologize. Though… Why not, that is—well, you…changed locations somewhat frequently. What criteria do you use to choose the next place to settle?” Ford hadn’t been prepared for the impassive face that studiously avoided his gaze.

“Ford.”

Ford was startled into a pause. His stomach twisted painfully. “There must be some sort of criteria for suitability.” He mumbled.

“Somewhere I won’t be in anyone’s hair.”

“That seems rather subjective. Who decides that?”

“I do.”

Ford took another long, hard look at his brother. The dark circles under his eyes discolored the skin like bruises—or maybe one _was_ a faint bruise—and a few half-healed scratches dotted his cheek and jaw, with a few smaller ones reaching his collarbone. Had he been in a fight? _That_ seemed like the Stanley he knew, but the familiarity brought him no comfort. Ford hoped it was a trick of the light, but another patch of darker, mottled skin poked out of the neckline of his dingy shirt. Stan let out a loud sniff and shifted once again, his eyes pointedly focused on the wall across from Ford. He’d been caught staring, Ford realized sheepishly, but Stanley had made it a point not to say anything. Stanley never kept his mouth shut. Not _his_ Stanley. ~~But this wasn’t his Stanley anymore.~~

He had to say something. He’d been caught staring and he’d let the silence drag on for too long. He needed to save this before it went horribly awry.

“Hey, Stanley?”

“Yeah?” Here it was. Fuck, what was he going to say?

“I just… Well, I—” he stopped himself, letting out a sigh. “I missed you.” Ford glanced down at the mug clenched tightly between his hands and then to his brother’s motionless ones, following the rigid line of his body up to his sharp, squared jaw. His eyes never left the window. Small muscles visibly twitched under the skin of his neck and after an eternity, the man let his shoulders fall and a whistle of air escaped his nose.

“Yeah.”

 _Was… Is that it?_ Ford sat silently as the pit of his stomach hit the floor. This continued to follow unexpected twists and turns. Turns that left Stanford at a loss and struggling to keep from careening into a mess he didn’t want to fully contemplate. He took a moment to brace himself. This was fine. Everything was fine. He had this under control. Everything would be perfectly fine. He would make sure of it.

Ford stared somewhere past his brother as he weighed his options, his eyes flickering back to the man as he shifted. Stanley mumbled something he wouldn’t quite discern. He wasn’t sure if he was meant to ask for clarification. The silence left an uncomfortable lull, interrupted only by the steady ticking of a wall clock. Both men let it continue until Stanley stood, his chair slowly scraping the wooden floor.

“I’ll let you get ta work, or somethin’. I’m sure ya got somethin’ important tucked away you could be workin’ on.”

“I—yes. That is, I _do_ have a project I’m currently working on, but—”

“Great. I’ll leave ya to it. Don’t mind me, I’ll just be upstairs with Stella. I’ll stay outta your way.” Ford watched his brother retreat up the stairs with equal parts indignation and dismay.

 _Alright, then. It appears I’ve been dismissed._ Ford had no choice but to be forcibly left to his own devices. The feeling was unsettling. What was he supposed to do in this situation? His mind warred between feeling relief for the respite from many awkward interactions and deep, pulsating _shame_ at not being able to coax _his_ _own twin brother_ into wanting to spend time with him. He let out a sigh and reached for Stan’s near-empty mug, dropping it into the sink. Since he _did_ have time available now, surely it wouldn’t hurt to sit down and strategize. Given enough time, which he had been granted, he could formulate a plan. Yes, he could make this work, he decided, as he made his way to his bookshelf, pulling the lever to reach his study.

≈

His foolproof plan hadn’t accounted for this.

Though it was his habit, Ford hadn’t expected to get so thoroughly wrapped up in his work—planning the best way to reconcile with his brother—that he completely forgot to resurface and effectively shot his own plans in the foot. He hurried up the elevator, though he wasn’t sure what good it would do at the current late hour. He shuffled into the kitchen, sparing a glance at the clock. Roughly a quarter after two. Surely he was the only one awake. He leaned against the counter and let his head loll back with a sigh. He hadn’t imagined that a visit from his brother would be so spectacularly _excruciating._ Ford’s mind drifted to the…incident. Although it had ended in a painful, spectacular failure, he’d spent the years poring over his memories of the day. He’d reconfigured _Project Mentem_ to capture the memory in its entirety to make sure it would remain well-preserved ~~just in case.~~ Every time he scanned the memory, he could swear he saw something. A glimmer of hope, of some little remnant of optimism in Stan’s countenance. _You extinguished that yourself a number of years ago._ Of course that optimism was no longer present. Trapping your brother in an incomprehensible hellscape for three years might just have that sort of effect. _There should be no question as to why he hates me._ Ford grimaced. _He doesn’t hate me._

He couldn’t.

 _He just…has a strong, adverse reaction to me._ That shouldn’t be insurmountable.

Ford let his head fall forward and raised his eyes up to give a cursory glimpse out the window. _Holy Moses. Not again._ He bolted to the front door, sliding against the wood in his haste to open it. The hiccupped. Strangled, hysterical laughter bubbled up from the back of his throat. The cool night air swirled up and around him to mock him as he stared out. There was nothing outside. Absolutely nothing, save a fresh set of tire tracks molding the dead grass into the shape of his fears.

The Stanleymobile was gone.

Again.

He slammed a fist against the threshold, ignoring the throbbing pain for that of his pulse pounding in his ears. He let the door slam shut before bounding up the stairs to his guestroom, wrenching the door open. Had he really packed everything up and left? _Again?_ Did he even have anything _to_ pack? His frantic eyes darted across the room, lit only by the faint light slipping in from the hallway, until they landed on a little lump in the center of the bed.

“Oh, _fuck.”_ He deflated as he stumbled towards the bed. Somehow, he hadn’t woken the child in his flurry of activity. _Oh, God_. His brother had _left_ and left his child behind. He was going to be sick.

 _He left her. He left both of us._ Stanford’s eyes began to water.

He dropped down onto the edge of the bed, hunching forward. Ford dug his elbows into the tops of his thighs and tangled his fingers into his hair, tugging hard enough to feel a sharp pinch along his scalp. “Fuck.” What was he supposed to do? He was responsible for a _child._ A living, breathing, small human being with actual needs and concerns was in his charge, and he hadn’t the first idea on how to handle it. What the hell was Stanley thinking? Ford was in no way qualified to care for a child, though apparently neither was Stan. How could he be so absolutely _careless?_

“What the fuck?” What the hell had his brother been _thinking?_ Who the fuck just…just deserted and left a child with what was effectively a _stranger—oh, God,_ he was a _stranger_ to his _own family—_ and didn’t even utter a single word? He wouldn’t find him. He couldn’t find him last time, and he likely wouldn’t be able to find him now, either.

He stared at his sleeping niece.

He’d have to break the news to her. He was a grown man and was having problems coming to terms with this himself. How was he supposed to tell a small child that her only parent had just up and abandoned her? ~~Fiddleford would know what to do.~~

 _I can look for her mother._ He had enough relevant information. Date and city of birth; it wouldn’t be _too_ hard to weasel out the rest from there. Surely he’d find _something_ in the public records, and if not, he still had his shadow government contacts.

Ford sucked in a shaky breath. This wouldn’t be okay, but damn if he wouldn’t try to mitigate the casualties.

Maybe this visit _had_ been a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, gee, look at that. A cliffhanger! I'm fully aware that I'm completely awful for that right there, but uhhh, I ain't shamed! Not at all. It happened and I just kinda went with it.  
> As a shameless plug, I'm on tumblr as [as-be-low](as-be-low.tumblr.com) if anyone wants to talk to me or scream at me about stuff!


	6. I'm Soft and Heavy as the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _These clothes you gave me don't fit right_   
>  _The belt is loose and the noose is tight_   
>  _I'm drunk out looking for a fight_   
>  _I'm soft and heavy as the night_
> 
> _Nine Pin_ —Kaia Kater
> 
> His brother was an idiot and he’d punch him the moment he laid eyes on him.

Stanford sat in silence, his eyes unfocused as he faced the adjacent wall. He hadn’t moved from his initial perch at the foot of the bed. He was vaguely aware of a niggling little thought in the back of his mind, reminding him that if he didn’t move soon he’d be stiff enough to not be _able_ to move, but he ignored it in favor of sitting, as though any sudden movements would bring the uneasy calm around him crumbling down in a wave of panic.

He couldn’t deal with a child. He couldn’t even _babysit_ a child. He’d done so once, with Shermie’s son, and it had gone so spectacularly awry that _Pa_ of all people had to step in and he was never asked again. His attention crept to the small lump, still dozing with a naïve little smile. She was so _small._ What did small children even _need?_ Food and clothing were the most obvious answers, yet Ford knew there was more to it than that. Fiddleford had often commented on how _expensive_ young Tate was, and he’d often heard snippets of conversations in which parents lamented the costs of childrearing. He couldn’t understand why anyone would choose that for themselves, yet the choice was made many times over each day. _How was Stanley managing, then?_ It wasn’t difficult to infer the man’s poor financial prospects. He still wasn’t sure what to do about that. _Nothing, most likely, if he doesn’t come back._ He wouldn’t come back. He left and didn’t return when they were teens, and left again and didn’t return after…after the _incident_. _~~But whose fault was that?~~_

The third time wouldn’t be the charm. It wouldn’t do to get his hopes up again.

His brother was an idiot and he’d punch him the moment he laid eyes on him. What was he supposed to _do?_ He couldn’t take care of a child. He was reluctant to admit he did a poor job of caring for himself. He shifted and leaned over, tucking the blanket in around her where she’d kicked it away. If he did have to keep her, it wouldn’t be long before she’d grow frustrated with him, too. It was only reasonable, he supposed. Stan had grown to eschew him; it only followed that she would, too.

His heart pounded in his ears as he heard the faint rumble of an old engine drawing near. “Stanley.” He wheezed. His brother had lost his _damn fool mind._ Thank God, he was back! Was he back? That could be a distant truck, or some lost schmuck turning around. It wouldn’t do to get his hopes up.

He was going to kill Stanley. Absolutely _murder_ him. Ford stood and bumbled his way down the stairs, trying to allay the shaking in his muscles and the tremble in his hands. Thank goodness he was back. He was an absolute dipshit, but _he came back._ Ford yanked the door open the moment he heard his brother’s heavy footfalls hit the porch. “Stanley, you absolute imbecile, what the hell were you—” he swallowed his words. “ _What happened to you?_ ”

“Why the fuck are you awake, and hello to you, too.” Stanley slurred, leaning heavily against the siding.

“Oh, for—get inside!” Ford hissed. He reached out and grabbed Stanley’s arm, slinging it over his shoulder as he led him into the kitchen once again. “ _What happened to your face?”_ Stanford grit out.

Stanley sighed from the chair Ford dropped him into, shuffling with a wince. “Nothin’. S’fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it? You’re kidding, right? You just expect me to accept that you’ve gone out at odd hours of the night, _springing a child on me—_ ”

“Hey! Stella is _my_ child. _Mine._ No one’s askin’ you t’ take care of her!”

“Stan, you just up and disappeared _without a word_ and left a _child_ with me. In what way is that not ‘asking me to take care of her?’”

“She was _asleep!_ You didn’t wake her up, did you? Did she wake up?”

“No, she’s still asleep, but that _isn’t the point._ ”

“Oh, it isn’t, huh?” Stan curled his lower lip over his teeth, his broad jaw jutting forward. The split skin of his lip reopened in the process, Ford noted.

“ _No._ The point is, that she’s a small child you left _alone_. What the hell were you _thinking?_ ”

“I was _thinking_ that I’m doing the best I can, damnit!” Stanley finally snapped. His battered shoulders slumped. “Look. I didn’t come here to fight with you. Again.”

That little aside stung.

“Just tell me what it is you want, ‘n we’ll both get out of your hair ‘n you won’t have to _worry_ so much.”

“Ford paused in his ire, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t follow.”

Stanley cocked his head just enough to be able to fix Stanford with a sharp eye. Ford fought back a grimace at that. Stanley’s nose was bloody—most likely broken, from the looks of it—and his eye was swollen half-shut and beginning to discolor. Stanford turned towards the freezer, pulling out a few ice cubes to place into a bag. The routine was painfully familiar and brought back both fond and uncomfortable memories of their youth, now mixed with the keen awareness of lapsed time.

“You wanted me up here for a reason. Just tell me what it is you want me to do, and I’ll have us both on our way.”

Stanford blanched, sucking in a breath and letting it whistle through his teeth. He backed away from the fridge until his thigh hit the counter and reached behind himself to grasp it in a white-knuckled grip. He felt winded. If Stanley hadn’t been seated well out of reach, he would’ve sworn up and down that the man had socked him in the chest. _He thinks…Oh, fuck._ Any words he might’ve had promptly died between his teeth and the startled, pained look that painted his face would have to suffice until he could collect himself.

But Stanley wouldn’t look at him. He kept his chin tucked down and his eyes firmly on the table. Anywhere but Stanford. He seemed put-out by Ford’s silence.

“That bad, huh? Do you not wanna tell me what it is ‘cause I ‘sprung a child on you?’” He spat Ford’s own words back at him. Stanford winced. “Geez. Well, whatever it is, I’ll try t’ do it. I’m not dumb enough to fight you on it twice.”

Stanford ached. “You thought… I…” Ford didn’t know where to begin. “I just wanted to see you.” His voice was surprisingly faint. It was enough to unnerve himself. Stanley directed his incredulous snort at the table.

“Right. Sure. The only person nuts enough to want to see me would be Ma, and that doesn’t count.”

Ford held his tongue. This wouldn’t go anywhere good.

“Stanley,” he began, almost hesitant to continue, “are you okay? I need to know that you’re all right. What—how did _this_ even happen?” He flapped a hand in the direction of his brother’s face. His brother rolled his eyes. “Stanley, whatever it was, _I just want to understand._ ”

Stan sighed again, deep in the back of his throat so that it came out more as an exasperated growl. He flinched back as the ice pack was placed roughly against his swollen eye.

“Sorry.”

“Eh.” He grunted. “It’s nothin’ serious—” Ford snorted. Stanley fixed him with another sharp gaze before continuing. “Don’t worry about it. Really. Just a bad punch.”

Ford gaped. “You got into a _bar fight?_ Is that what you’re telling me?”

“What? Psh. Yeah, Ford, absolutely. Got into a bar fight. Had the time ‘a my life.” Stanley drawled. Ford stood over the battered man with rising frustration. “You shoulda seen the other guy. Looks like a puzzle now.” He continued.

Ford pushed away from his brother and slipped out of the room. “Don’t move.” He stalked off towards the bathroom and let out a shaky whimper of a breath before staring into the mirror. What in the hell? He knew he should be feeling relieved that Stanley had returned, more or less in one piece, but instead he only felt agitation and a keen sense of loss he couldn’t explain. He shook his head at his reflection and pried the mirror open to reveal the medicine cabinet and its contents. _Aspirin. Arnica. Peroxide_. “Damnit.” Jars and bottles clattered out of the small cabinet and landed in the sink. With a huff, he began to shove the bottles back in, pausing as his hand wrapped around a small, stoppered vial. He rolled it in his palm, studying the clear, almost iridescent liquid inside. He’d forgotten all about this. It’d been pushed back behind various items, never used since he decanted it. Ford held his lip between his teeth.

_The truth teeth._ He’d forgotten all about them. A while back he’d realized, after a series of mistakes, that the water the teeth soaked in gained their same properties, though diluted. Of course he wanted to use it. He wouldn’t, though. Even _he_ could acknowledge the sheer underhandedness of such an action. _As underhanded as slinking off unannounced and leaving a child unattended?_ She’d cried that very morning when she hadn’t seen him immediately upon waking. He shuddered to think of what would have happened if she’d woken to find him gone while Ford had still been away in the lab. His anger flared again. No, the two weren’t on the same level, but Stanley certainly owed him some non-dodged answers. It was wrong, he knew, but it was worth it. It didn’t remove the little lump of guilt already beginning to form in the pit of his stomach, though. _Don’t get guilty. Get angry._ Get _vindicated_.

“Oh, good, you’re still here.” He couldn’t resist the urge to snip as he slipped back into the kitchen. Stanley let out a grumble that sounded suspiciously akin to “fuck yourself,” though Ford chose to ignore it. He snatched a glass down from the cabinet and filled it with water, using his turned back as an opportunity to tip a splash of the clear liquid into the water. He pocketed the vial, then slammed the glass down in front of Stan and unscrewed the aspirin bottle, shaking out a few tablets onto the expanse of table between them. Stanley grunted out a noise Ford decided to take as gratitude. He reached up to nudge Stan’s hand away from his face, inspecting the damage.

“I’m tellin’ you, it’s not that serious.”

“Please, just…take it. It’s senseless not to.” Ford pressed. The stranger in his kitchen rolled his eyes and popped the tablets into his mouth, reaching for the glass of water. He downed roughly half of it, setting the glass back down with a grimace.

“You just split your lip back open.”

Stan shrugged. “It happens.”

“Not often, I’d hope.”

“Eh, less frequently than it used to. Like I said, it doesn’t matter.”

“How could that _possibly_ not matter?” Ford snapped, leaning back to perch in the chair beside his obstinate brother. “…Sorry.” He sighed. “I just… _don’t_ understand how you can be so blasé about things like this.”

“Yeah, well, what choice do I have?”

Ford blinked. “Excuse me?”

“It’s not like I went to school, or even finished high school. C’mon Ford, I’ve been to prison multiple times. Who in their right mind would hire me? What else can I get paid to do but punch and be punched?” he tapped a finger to his temple. “Use that big brain ‘a yours.” A deprecating half-grin split his lip further. “Punchin’ and gettin’ punched is one of the only things I’m good at.”

“Stanley, that’s not true.” It couldn’t be. _When we were young, he’d always been good at… at… Shit._

“Says you. I got a long string of ex-bosses who’d say otherwise.” Ford was stricken. “It doesn’t really matter, though. I hated doin’ a lot of that shit, anyway.”

_Damnit._ Ford turned his attention to the bruise cream on the table and uncapped it, squeezing a dollop onto his finger. “Here. Lean in.” Stan obliged, keeping his eyes focused somewhere above Stanford’s head. Silence reigned as Stanford focused his energy on patting the cream into the delicate skin, wincing apologetically as Stan jerked back. “Sorry.” He took a deep breath in. “So, you… You were prizefighting?” Ford struggled to keep his voice steady as he asked. Stanley shrugged.

“I jus’ call it boxin’.”

“Ah.” Ford bit his lip. “Whoever you fought must’ve outclassed you.” They’d done a number on his brother’s face.

“Nah.” _No?_ “Took a fall.”

Ford reared back, his brows visiting his hairline. “You did what? _You,_ Stanley Pines, lost a fight? _On purpose?”_

Stan shrugged. “Gotta pick ‘n choose your battles—isn’t that how the sayin’ goes?—‘n there was good money in it.”

“ _But fixed fights, Stan?”_

“Like I said. Good money.” He shifted, fishing in his pocket for a lump he palmed flat onto the table. Ford scanned a small wad of cash. It looked to be roughly two hundred dollars. “Here. Gotta pay you back _some_ kinda way.” Stan grunted, his eyes averted.

Unease welled in the bottom of Ford’s chest. “What’s this for?”

“I gotta pay you back.” Stanley repeated, annoyance heavy in his tone.

“For what? Stan, you don’t owe me.”

“I ain’t gonna be in nobody’s debt, okay? Not anymore.” Ford wasn’t sure the tail end of that had been meant for him to hear. The two fell into a brief, harsh silence.

“I’m telling you, Stan, you _don’t_ owe me anything.”

“You ‘n I both know I owe you a lot of things, but I can’t provide.”

“Like what?” Stanford drawled.

“I ruined your future, ‘n I owe you the money you coulda made from me not breakin’ your project. I owe you—”

“You can’t be serious.” Fords eyes darted around the room as his heart raced. _Shit, that was blunt._ He didn’t remember the serum being that potent when he tested it on himself. Then again, he tested it on himself in complete isolation, with no one to attempt to lie to but himself. He hadn’t been prepared for _that_ particular, worn-out conversation to come to the forefront again.

“I based a decade of my life on tryin’ to find a way to earn back the money I took away from you ‘n the rest of the family so that I could maybe come back home ‘n be worth somethin’, even if it was just a little bit of somethin’. I don’t know how to get any more serious than that.” Stanley took a breath, and continued. “I owe you a brother who’s—”

“Stop it.”

“I owe you a brother who’s not so dumb enough t’ think that dumb childhood ideas would be a good thing t’ base the rest of our lives on—”

“ _Stop it!”_

“No, Ford, I won’t. You’ve been asking me all these stupid questions since the moment I got here, ‘n now that I wanna talk about it for some reason, you don’t get to make me shut up. You get to _listen_ , so either pipe down or ask the kinda questions you want answered.” He took a breath. “I owe you all the time I made you waste on that stupid boat,” Ford began to cough. “and I owe you ‘bout five years of your life back, too, or prob’ly more, if we’re addin’ in other times I wasted.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Did he have a concussion? Was he hit in the head one too many times? Concussions shouldn’t be mixed with other substances. He’d have to—

“I’m sayin’ I don’t think you shoulda wasted your time bringin’ me back. I mean, what’s the point? I don’t _do_ anything. Not really servin’ a purpose—”

“ _You stop right there.”_

“I’m just sayin’. You’re smart, Ford. Always have been. You’re one of those guys who’s gonna change the world someday with that big brain of yours. I’m not like that. Can’t really do anything useful for anybody, ‘cept takin’ a punch here or there, ‘n any old schmuck can do that.

“Don’t say things like that, Stanley. Please.”

“It’s the truth, Ford. Me not sayin’ it ain’t gonna change any of that.”

_He really believes this,_ Ford realized with dismay. The self-deprecating jokes he used to spin as a child hadn’t been jokes to Stanley. _I used to laugh at those jokes_. Ford swallowed his sandpaper tongue as Stanley continued. “You coulda been usin’ that time for somethin’ better.”

“Listen to me. You’re _not_ stupid.”

“I am, ‘n I got the unfinished bad grades t’ prove it.”

“That doesn’t count. You just didn’t apply yourself. If you’d tried more—”

“I tried at first. What, you think I wanted to be bad at everything?” Stanley gave a little snort, oddly mirthful given the circumstances. “I wanted to make Ma ‘n Pa proud of me, like they were proud of you. Well, Ma, mostly. You know how happy she used to get seein’ your report cards ‘n stuff. I _did_ try. Didn’t change much, so I stopped puttin’ in all the work. Why try hard ‘n make bad grades when you can stop tryin’ ‘n get the same results? Better to look like you don’t care ‘n get bad grades than to try hard, get bad grades anyway, ‘n then look extra dumb.”

Ford tasted bile. “A stupid person wouldn’t be able to charm a room like you can, Stanley. You’ve got a way with people.”

“A dog can do the same thing in three seconds by tryin’ to lick his own asshole. _Dogs_ got a way with people, too, ‘n we’re about the same levels of dumb. It’s not exactly a talent. Anyway, it doesn’t even matter, ‘cause I tried to use it in my favor, but none of it helped me get enough to pay you back even a fraction of what I owe you.”

Ford slammed a fist on the table, causing the glass and bottles to rattle. “Damnit, Stanley, you don’t owe me a damn thing! _I’m_ the one who owes you!” A lump settled in Stanford’s throat and he struggled to swallow. Stan eyed him with alarm. Ford _hated_ it. His brother was the one who was roughed up; he shouldn’t be looking at _him_ in concern. Stanley pushed the glass towards Ford as Ford tried to hide the tears welling in his eyes. He accepted the welcome distraction, cupping it to his lips. “How can you say that?” he croaked. “After… After everything I put you through, _said_ to you… How can you possibly believe that _you_ owe _me_ anything?”

His brother held him with a sharp, impassive gaze. “I’m _just_ sayin’, is all. Just…tell me what you want me to do. There’s gotta be _somethin’_ that’s eatin’ ya _._ ”

“What if I said I wanted you to stay?” he whispered, watching Stanley’s Adam’s apple bob as he pointedly avoided looking at his person.

“For how long?” his voice was gruff.

“I…don’t know? For as long as you’d like.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

Ford winced. _Damn, that smarts._ “For as long as you _need_ , then.”

Stan remained impassive. “You’ll get sick of me soon enough.”

_Sick of him?_ Ford was sick _now._ “Oh, damnit, Stanley.” He wheezed under his disappointed sigh.

≈

Stanley didn’t get it. He was _tired._ He was _sore._ He was _fed up_ with all these nosy, stupid-ass questions Ford had no business asking, but apparently that didn’t matter; he was blurting out the answers to shit about things Ford had _no business knowing._ Stan’s mistakes were his own, and he didn’t need any fair-haired boy looking down on him for them. What he did for money was nobody’s concern but his own. He’d done a lot worse than fighting in fixed matches. A hell of a lot worse. He couldn’t _stand_ the pitying looks the man kept slinging his way. He didn’t need that shit.

His eyes traced the grain lines of the wooden table. _Fuck everything._ Here he was, spilling half his guts out, and for what reason? Just because Ford asked? He shouldn’t have been giving him the same sway he’d had over him as a child. He had fucked up and lost favor with the man a long time ago, and he wasn’t gonna get it back. He’d accepted that years ago.

Granted, he was well aware that the man was too damn persistent. He’d keep asking anyway, until he got an answer. It’s how he’d always been. That knowledge didn’t make any happier to share, though. _Me and my big dumb mouth._ His mouth was well-acquainted with his foot, just like it was no stranger to finding ways to get him into tight spots.

He was too _tired_ for this. Stanley needed to sleep, and to let his filter build back up. But no, the man in front of him just kept on asking questions. It was all the same, probably. Ford would get his answers anyway, he might as well answer him now and get the pain over with up front. _Just like pulling teeth._

“What?”

Had he said that out lout? Whoops. He gave Ford a small shrug, the faintest of acknowledgements, hoping Ford would take his disinterest at face value and not press. He knew it was unlikely. Stan had to get away before he blabbed anything else. “I’m gonna go check on my kid.” He slurred, moving to stand. Stanford’s appalled face gave him pause. “ _What?”_

“You’re going to…go up there like _that?”_

Stanley scowled, though it probably reinforced whatever point Ford thought he had. “What, am I s’posed to be hiding from my kid until my face heals up?” Ford was _ridiculous._ “She’s seen worse.” He grimaced. _Damnit._ Why did he say that?

“Stanley… Have you gone prizefighting with a baby in tow?”

“Don’t sound so horrified. I only took her with me when she was too little to sleep through the night ‘n I didn’t have anywhere to leave her, ‘n that’s too little for her to remember.” He turned towards the stairs. Maybe he could get away before he could spill any more embarrassing information.

A broad hand reached out and took hold of his arm. He automatically tensed before willing himself to relax. He was safe here. ~~Relatively so.~~ There was no need to have to fight here, it was _alright—_ He felt the hand retreat, and willed himself to look up at the offending hand’s owner. He tried to keep his scowl in check. _“What?”_

“Nothing! I mean…” the man trailed off, leaving Stanley with residual secondhand discomfort. “I didn’t finish fixing you up.” He mumbled.

Stanley stood, fighting the urge to lean away as he weighed his options. “Fine.” He huffed. Stella would cry if something was up and she needed anything.

The fool in front of him just _had_ to keep talking. “You’d likely scare her, with the blood and bruises and whatnot.”

“Seriously?” It looked like Stanley wasn’t the only one with a case of why-can’t-you-just-shut-the-fuck-up that night. “I’m doing the _best I can_ , Ford.” He mumbled. He couldn’t help but wince, couldn’t help but _keep opening his big fat mouth, and—_

“Stanley, I am _so sorry—”_

“It’s alright.” It might not have been. He wasn’t sure. He just _did not_ want to hear it, whatever it was. He was _too tired_ for this.

“It isn’t, really. It’s _not_ alright.” The man let out a nervous laugh. _Perfect._ _Here we go._ “I mean, ultimately, isn’t this all my fault?”

“Oh, geez, Ford. Don’t start, please. I’m really not in the mood for any of this.”

“If you can make me listen to _your_ uncomfortable opinions, you can also listen to mine.”

“Ford, don’t get punched.”

“Stan, look at your face. I think you’ve done enough punching for one night. Or several, actually.”

Stan snorted. “I can still pencil you in.”

“Ultimately, that’s fine, I suppose. There would be no need for this conversation at all if I hadn’t—”

“Oh, hell. Here we go.”

“If I hadn’t pushed you _through_ in the first place, you wouldn’t have had to—”

“It’s not important anymore. Let it go.”

“ _Let it go?_ Stanley, _I could have killed you._ I ruined your life! I can see it in your face! You know it’s true!”

“I ruined my own life. You said it yourself.”

“I didn’t—” Ford looked surprised—confused, even—as he coughed and stumbled over his tongue. Stanley chuckled.

“I did. You coulda left me there ‘n gone on with your life. Really. S’not like I was doin’ anything. You shoulda just left me ‘n focused on all your work, or whatever you wanted to do. You coulda gotten big ‘n famous ‘n successful like you wanted, ‘n you wouldn’t’a had to worry about me showing up to fuck things up for you again. Criminal record like mine, nobody woulda gone lookin’ for me. Ain’t like I used my real name in a long time, either. Stan Pines has basically been dead for goin’ on twenty years.”

“Stanley…”

“I’m serious. I dunno what all you did in that time, but it’s worth repeatin’. That’s five years wasted.”

“ _Five?_ Stanley, you were—it took me two years, just shy of three, to reconstruct the portal in a non-detrimental manner.”

Stanley’s hackles rose. You sayin’ I can’t tell time? I know how long I was over there! I stole a watch a few months in that didn’t get all fucked up by dimensional time differences ‘n shit.”

Ford’s eyes seemed to dance between horror and intrigue. “You—there…I mean, _really?_ ”

Stan shrugged. He knew what question was lingering, lying in wait under Ford’s words and he ignored it. “Man needs a watch.”

“That’s… Fair, I suppose.” Stanford rocked back on his heels. “A time discrepancy. We have a three-year time discrepancy. Unbelievable.”

“Yeah, well. Ain’t nothin’ to do for it now.” Stan rumbled. “Ain’t important, neither. Time is made up.”

“On that, we can agree, it appears. Time _is_ a construct.”

Stanley rolled his eyes again, letting his head fall back. If he was lucky, maybe his eyes would get stuck like that like Ma used to say, and he wouldn’t have to put in any effort to ever show how annoyed he was by this man ever again.

“Whatever. Anyways, at least you didn’t waste as much time as I thought.”

“Fixing my colossal mistake was _not_ a waste of time, Stanley.”

“You said so yourself.”

“What? When? I _never said—”_

“Doesn’t matter now. Good night.” With that, Stanley turned his body away and made a break for the hallway. The faster Ford was out of his line of sight, the better, most likely.

“Stanley?”

Stanley closed his eyes, letting a groan seep from his nostrils. “What now?”

He heard Ford take in a deep breath. “How long have you been living out of your car, Stan?”

Oh, _fuck._

The air around Stanley seemed to thicken and grow muggy. “…Why are you asking me this?” Stanley clamped his bruised lip between his teeth. He’d be _damned_ if he let anything slip out. He flinched, trying to hide the movement with an odd fidget. _Don’t turn around. Don’t look at him. Just don’t._ How did he even _know?_ He’d been _careful._ He’d tucked all his stuff away and out of sight. He had tried _so hard_ to keep that just to himself, but apparently he couldn’t have anything, not even his secrets or the last remnants of his pride.

“Stanley, _please._ ” The man behind him pressed. Stanley could hear his voice cracking, wavering, as if it affected him. _As if he even cares._ He bit down harder on his lip, drawing blood from the already mangled skin. His sore gums ached from the pressure he put on his fragile teeth. He shook his head. His lips parted with a small gasp of air, almost despite himself.

“Why does it matter?”

“You can’t expect me to believe you consider that a non-issue.” _Really?_ Stan held his tongue hostage between his teeth, but the little bastard slipped out to betray him.

“Since I got kicked out.” He could practically _hear_ the man behind him deflate, as if it were somehow _his_ problem to deal with. Stanley couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“Stanley—”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“ _It absolutely is!”_

“Yeah? _For who?_ Not you, damnit! Not. You!” He shook his head adamantly as he composed himself, his knuckles white as he gripped the banister. He wasn’t gonna yell. He wasn’t. He might wake his daughter, and she deserved a good night’s sleep without anything interrupting it. “It _isn’t_ a big deal. I’m _fine. We’re_ —we—we…” he coughed. He couldn’t force the words out of his mouth. It almost felt like he was simultaneously gagging and choking as he tried.

He heard Stanford huff and take a step forward. Stan took one of his own, spinning around to face him while remaining comfortably out of reach. “Oh, don’t start pretending to care _now.”_ He snapped, eyes wet with indignation. “Would you have cared at all if I hadn’t gone through your little _death machine?_ ” He snorted, uninterested in watching the way the man crumpled under his gaze. “You sure as hell didn’t _before._ ”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, so if I never showed up, you wouldn’t have written me off as some sort of deadbeat dumbass? Or if I had taken that damn book like you wanted and just walked _right back outta here,_ immediately after spending _every last bit of money I had_ on the gas to get here instead of food, and gone somewhere ‘far, far away from you and never came back,’ you wouldn’t’a just went on, all happy with your perfect little plan? If I took that book to my _grave,_ you know you wouldn’t’a even come to my funeral. So don’t—don’t fuckin’…try to pretend otherwise.” He tried to hide the hoarseness creeping into his voice with a string of dry coughs. With one last sour glance at Stanford, he turned again and placed a heavy hand on the stair railing. “That’s it. We’re done with this. No more of this stupid…heart-to-heart bullshit. Good _night.”_

Stan eased his way up the stairs, ignoring the ache in his body ~~and chest~~ with each step away from the source of his anger. Ford’d had _one damn job._ All he had to do was stay down in his evil scientist dungeon, or wherever it was he went, and _stay there._ He didn’t get it. The man had wanted absolutely nothing to do with him since he was seventeen, up until he needed an errand boy and Stanley had managed to fuck that up to hell and back, followed by years of more radio silence, and now, out of the blue, he had become so _clingy._ He was in his face almost nonstop. Damnit, he needed time to _breathe. Alone._ His three-year-old could give him space when he needed it, without being asked, and she spent all her time trapped in tight quarters with him. After twenty years of separation, there was no way he could handle the man's overwhelming, constant presence.

_It’s because of that damn accident._ He sighed. It wasn’t like he had been doing much of anything with his life at the time. Or now. _Probably my fault, anyway._ He’d accepted that a while back. Stanley had made a hell of a lot of mistakes; he knew he had no right to hold anything accidental against anyone. If anything, it might’ve made them even. Stan fucks up Ford’s life long-term, Ford fucks up Stan’s life for a shorter ~~and pretty damn traumatic~~ period of time, then they both cut their losses and call it even. There was no reason for Ford to try so hard to be so…buddy-buddy with him _now._ It just wasn’t in the cards for them. He’d accepted that, and Ford would have to do the same.

His child was still sound asleep, thankfully, even after he kicked off his shoes with a series of loud _thunks_. He plopped down on the edge of the bed with a pained sigh, then slowly scooted the child over and out of the center of the bed where she’d made her little nest. She let out a murmur of protest, quieting while Stan let out a soft chuckle. _Kids. At least somebody’s getting a good night’s sleep tonight._ He wasn’t likely to, of that he was certain, having been robbed of the post-fight exhaustion that would’ve been more than welcome, and replaced with adrenaline that still cycled its way through him. He hunkered down for the night anyway, settling on watching Stella snooze in the quiet, dim room.

“Sweet dreams, kiddo.”

Ford would figure out what he wanted soon enough, and when he did, they could both go back to minding their own business from a safe distance of at least three hundred miles away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: OH YEAH I CAN'T WAIT TO WRITE OUT THEM ACTUALLY TALKING THINGS OUT FINALLY.  
> Also me, fiddling with sunglasses: I can't read suddenly. I don't know.


	7. How Many Beasts in the Night?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Steady the hand that lays the child to bed_  
>  _Barbitals and decay_  
>  _The crown and anchor_    
>  _You’ll curse at the sky_  
>  _Three words for which the boys have no names_    
>  _How many beasts in the night_  
>  _To take you away_  
>  Baroness— _Mtns. (The Crown and Anchor)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s chapter 7, quickly typed and posted. Sorry for any typos and mistakes, I’ll go back through and edit them soon. I just wanted to post before I left (I REALLY should be asleep right now ~~my flight leaves in like three hours whoops~~ ) because if I don’t do it now, I won’t be able for a while and that’s not cool. This chapter is actually pretty long ~~(and unfinished)~~ and I ended up splitting it in two, so the second half should come out as chapter 8 hopefully within the next week.

Stanley stared up at the sky. There was nowhere else to look.

He was on his back, aching and sore, and he was stuck looking up at the god-awful sky. The brightness stung his eyes, but still he couldn’t move his head, couldn’t even close his eyes to block out the awful light.

He felt a sense of dread looking at the sky, as if his feet would leave the ground and he would begin falling, falling into that sickeningly bright blue once again. It made him sick to look at the sky. It was better to look down.

Observe the ground.

Admire it. Appreciate the thud of each footstep as his feet left and reconnected with the dirt, were they belonged. Where _he_ belonged.

_Like recognizes like._

The sky was the same horrible, swirling bright color as it was when he fell _up._ The same color as it was when the man he used to call his brother pushed him and he fell, fell in slow motion, fell _up_ into the air that sucked him in and curled closed behind in a mockery of a smirk. Nothing had felt right about it. _Nothing had been right about it._

He remembered the strange, nauseating feeling of Gravity just _stopping_ , of the cumbersome heft of his limbs, heavy with some unknown dread as they dangled in midair. He remembered the uncoordinated, bulky weightlessness of his body as he scrabbled for the ground that was grew tauntingly distant. He remembered the numb panic dancing down his spine and across the seared, charred flesh of his shoulder and it _burned,_ it was all _too much,_ and he could _smell it;_ the fear and his own smoky, burning skin and the round, heavy tang of the molten polyester of his jacket that clung to his shoulder blade sent black spots prickling along the edges of his unfocused vision while that blinding blue light sent electric sparks through the air and stars dancing across the black.

The ice-cold horror and the burning hot anger and confusion were back, and so was the sick, churning dread that numbed his mind and made every cell in his body want to scream out in agony. He was falling again, into the wrong direction.

It was all _so blue._

Gravity’s tug was back, but he was too far gone. The sky had him and was determined to drag him into its horrible expanse, though the ground tried to take back what was rightfully hers. He was going to be sick. His chest tightened.

He was losing his mind. None of this could be happening.

He was falling. He had to be falling. Falling the _right_ way.

He hated the color blue. Blue was the sky, unending no matter how high, how sickeningly high you went, pulling you away into its bright, blinding light that hurt your eyes. He liked red.

Red was a good color. Ma always dressed him in red, usually to tell him apart from his brother before they grew older and it became so _obvious_ how unlike his sibling he was.

Red was safe.

It was the color of the blush that warmed Carla’s cheeks when she laughed at his dumb jokes when he was just some dumb kid. It was the color of the earth, the red dirt of the desert that welcomed him as his face rushed to meet the ground, his legs still tangled around the zip ties and contractor’s bag holding him in the trunk. It was the blood he spat on to concrete countless times over. Red was familiar. Red was known. Red was _safe_.

Blue was the sky, lofty and full of the impossible goals he’d never reach. As the sky stole him once more, he remembered something Ford had said back when they were kids, about the sky and sea being the same color for the same reason. He resolved to hate them both in equal measure.

The black spots along his peripheral vision stretched out and swirled, brushing along his hands and arms and every bit of exposed skin they could find. It _itched._ He tried to swat at it, but the shadows wrapped around his chest and neck and squeezed, working their heavy pressure down to his chest as they tickled and taunted and he wheezed. More fine, thin tendrils reached up and caressed his face, almost in a mockery of easy affection, and his skin crawled underneath each delicate little scrape.

_The clouds._ It was the clouds. It had to have been. They must’ve been like those big, fluffy spider web nests in those stupid flowery trees and he’d floated right into one.

He was gonna catch hell for it. He _hated_ spiders.

He hated spiders and he hated clouds, and he hated how they were _choking him,_ crawling along his face and jaw and tickling him with their countless, prickling little legs, crawling into his mouth while the thick black tendrils squeezed at his throat and bore down on his chest and _strangled him._ He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Only spiders rushed in. He tried again.

Stanley jolted forward with a gasp, his eyes flipping open at the strangled noise that left his mouth. He swallowed thickly—once, twice, third time was the charm—as he tried to even out his breathing, his eyes darting around the room. Ford’s house. He was at Ford’s house. It was safe. Or at least relatively so.

He glanced around the room with a scowl. It was just a stupid dream. Of course he had bad dreams. This house was the stuff of his nightmares. It had featured in most of them for years. While he was _gone_ everything had been hell, waking moments and dreams alike, and it was no surprise that the nightmares stayed constant once he’d gotten back. On the bright side, they had gradually lessened once he'd left and gotten himself hundreds of miles away from this nightmare-infested disaster zone. It was no surprise they’d pop back up once he got here. At least it didn’t feature this house—or Ford and Glass Shard Beach—for once. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he dreamed about this house again.

He looked down to take stock of himself, stopping short as something obstructed his view just under his nose. He squinted, willing his eyes into focus. Stella. The weight was Stella. She’d crawled onto his chest and used him as her own personal mattress in the night. He spat the child’s hair out of his mouth and sighed, sliding her down so that her head was on his chest instead of his face, immediately thankful as her elbow left his throat. Seriously? Why did she have to pick his face? He figured the whole thing might’ve been a great deal funnier if he wasn’t so banged up and his heart wasn’t trying to kick its way out of his chest still. He vaguely wondered if his jackhammering heartbeat against her ear would wake her up. _I guess she wanted Daddy._ He hoped _she_ hadn’t had any bad dreams, at least. He’d fight anything and anyone, including his own damn self, if they gave her bad dreams.

He inched into a sitting position, propping himself up against the headboard as he peered down. His eye was still swollen, not as badly as it had been, but it still wouldn’t open properly _. No biggie_. He could still see. He figured that was what mattered most. He squinted down at the child still asleep in his lap. “All the better to see you with, my dear.” He mumbled. His baby opened one eye at the noise, then slowly let it fall closed. He bit back a chuckle. Back to sleep it was.

He spared a glance at his watch. 6:47. It was still a bit dark out, but he expected he’d see the sun rise soon enough. He’d let her sleep; she’d probably wake up again sometime soon and he’d have to find some way to keep her occupied ~~and out of Stanford’s hair~~. He was sure he could find a park nearby. He wasn’t sure what day it was, but there was bound to be some sort of kid there around her age for her to play with. _But then there’s Stanford._ The man was likely to shit another couple of bricks if he got up and they were gone. He wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with that. _Or I could actually leave, and not come back._

No, that would be petty. He grimaced at the thought, which quickly turned into a grimace of discomfort. _Damn._ He didn’t want to deal with people him or Stella for his beat-up face, either. He would just have to let her play in Ford’s front yard. Maybe that weird leprechaun thing would still be out there. She could play with _that_ , though he really didn’t want her getting too attached, or more attached than she already was. She seemed smitten with the dumb thing almost at first sight. He’d let her play with it today, if it was still there, but he’d have to wean her off of it soon. Or shoo it away in the night. They couldn’t take the freaky thing with them when they left. It would be too hard on them both if she had to cry the whole time they left. She’d probably wake up angry at him if he put her in the car and drove off while she was sleeping, if it meant she didn’t get to say goodbye to the damn thing. She really was a good kid, she never gave him much trouble. He just _really_ didn’t want to see how disappointed she would be when he took her away from the first little bit of stability she’d ever experienced.

He’d have to burn that bridge when he got to it.

Stanley watched her sleep, choosing to ignore the line of drool soaking into his borrowed shirt—he’d have to make sure to give it back to Ford soon before he ruined it—in favor of the faint smile that graced her round little face. She was precious, spider web hair and all. He’d have to try and braid it or something. It had probably gotten long enough to try. The pigtails were undoubtedly cute, but her hair kept pulling itself out and sticking up in every direction, and that kinda defeated the purpose, he thought.

He absentmindedly smoothed her hair away from her face. She was going to be all right. He’d make damn sure none of this sci-fi, ghost hunting bullshit would ever hurt her. _~~Unless this is some bullshit now.~~_ No, this was real. He hoped this was real.

He _guessed_ this was real. Dreams and nightmares and whatever memories of that bizarro hellhole that tended to pop up were hard to discern sometimes, but he wasn’t sure he could dream up an entire _baby._

Maybe he _should_ hope she wasn’t real. He shouldn’t wish such a fucked-up life on her. She was just a little kid, ~~real or not~~. He scooped her up tighter, more as a reassurance to himself than anything else. He sent another glance around the room, scrutinizing Stanford’s belongings. That plant in he corner was probably too ugly for Stanley to have imagined it, he decided. It was if someone had told Stanford he was supposed to have a plant (and someone probably had), so he went out and bought the biggest, ugliest one he could, just out of spite. He doubted Ford even watered it. Maybe once. Maybe it _was_ fake, but in the real way that some plants were. He snorted at himself.

The child shifted in his arms and he blinked back down, meeting a pair of large, brown doe eyes focused intently on his face. “Sorry, pumpkin, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Your face is hurt.”

He sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He fought the urge to wince under the scrutiny. She shifted in his grip and moved to her knees, gibing him a small peck on an unbruised patch of his jaw. He should probably shave, before his unkempt stubble turned into a full-on beard. It was definitely not a look that suited—

“There. Now it’ll get better.”

A smile broke across Stanley’s face. “I feel loads better already. Thanks, sweetie.” It was a lie. He felt sick to his stomach. This child was three and she wasn’t fazed in the slightest by his banged-up-to-hell-and-back face. Ford’s earlier assumption that she’d be scared by his ugly mug should’ve been true, but like he’d said, Stella had seen plenty worse.

He subjected her to that.

A tiny hand gently patted his cheek and he turned his head with a fake growl, pulling his lips taut over his teeth as he pretended to bite six small fingers. His baby giggled and the sound was music to his ears.

“This little piggy had glasses. This little piggy had none.” It was a rhyme their mother had made, just for Stanford. He’d never expected to hear it again, much less recite it for a child of his own. “This little piggy had to go outside, ‘n this little piggy saw the sun. _This_ little piggy got sent to bed, and the luckiest little piggy had fun.” He sighed again, slightly more content as Stella beamed up at him. “How’re you feeling, kiddo? Hungry?”

“No.” she piped.

“Oookay. Fair enough.” He couldn’t bring himself to have much of an appetite, either. She settled back against his chest and he was content to doze like that, until the little girl inevitably began to squirm.

“My foot tingles.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” He set her on the edge of the bed, reaching out to tickle her foot. Stella squealed and flailed sticking her little foot against his bruised cheek. “Ow.” He blew a raspberry against her sole and stood with a groan, tucking Stella under his arm. “Let’s go down and get your shoes on, little miss.” He carried her downstairs, easing his way down the creaking stairs and to the front door. He paused. Ford had forgotten to lock it after cornering him in the middle of the night. _Of course he did._ The man was hopeless.

“Looks like your lil’ buddy is still here.” Good. They could play and he could have some time to gather his head. He jerked his chin towards the far end of the porch where the multicolored _thing_ seemed to be snoozing. Stella began to squirm, reaching desperately for the ground. “Easy, sweetie, that thing’s still sleepin’, you might not wanna—”

“HELLO!” she screeched, causing Stan to recoil from the noise while the leprecorn scrabbled to its feet. It flicked its tail, eyes darting back and forth before settling on Stella. Immediately it brightened, heading towards Stan’s feet in a clumsy trot.

“Nevermind. You two have at it.” The bagpipe music had started back up. He wasn’t gonna ask why. He set Stella down on her feet, straightening her shirt with a frown. The morning air was chillier than he’d anticipated.

“You ‘n your buddy stand right here while I go get your coat.” He repositioned the odd duo in the doorway. “Right here, okay?” he eased back inside, sending a quick glance backwards as he slipped up the stairs. “Coat. Coat. Tiny pink coat.” Where the fuck was it? It wasn’t like he’d spread their stuff out all over the room. He didn’t want to get _too_ comfortable. “Fuck.” He checked his jacket pockets, though it’d been a little while since he could comfortably fit a tiny jacket in there. His pockets were empty, save for a beat-up lighter. It never hurt to check, though. Stanley tossed it over his arm all the same.

He let a hiss of air escape his nose. Maybe she’d left it in the car. He fumbled his way back down the stairs and paused. The door was closed. He hadn’t closed the door. He was fairly certain his child couldn’t reach the doorknob. A frown crossed the man’s battered face. _Great. Ford must be up._ Maybe the wind had pulled the door shut, he hoped despite himself.

He eased the door open and bit back a sigh as he was greeted by Stanford’s back. Stella had moved just beyond the porch steps with her weird little friend. Fine. Stanley closed the door behind himself and strode past Stanford, draping his jacket across his daughter’s shoulders as he made his way to the Stanleymobile. He peered into the backseat.

“There.” He spotted a tuft of faded, dingy pink poking out from under the passenger seat. She must’ve yanked it off and kicked it, for reasons he’d probably never understand.

He scooped up the little hand-me-down coat and squatted down in front of Stella, who looked put-out to have to stop playing with her critter for long enough to be helped into her coat. He patted her tummy, fighting the urge to laugh at her little pout. “Better?”

“Yeah.”

“Thought so. Alright, go on.” She didn’t have to be told twice before launching herself back at the freaky leprechaun, throwing herself across its back. Stanley winced. Sure, she was small, but so was it, and he wasn’t really convinced that it could support her weight. Whatever. Ford said it could talk. It would speak up if it had a problem with it.

Stanley stood and watched the duo play, making a point not to look over at Stanford. He’d initially hoped to let Stella play and use that time as a chance to think. If he sat on the porch, he’d have to talk to Stanford. They’d done enough talking to last Stanley a while. Despite himself, he found his gaze creeping over to the man. Stanford stared back with a pitiful look. Stanley wheezed, quickly dropping his eyes back down to Stella. She and the rainbow unicorn were slowly but surely making their way to the porch. They’d moved about two yards away from him. There was no way he could play it off and swoop her up without intentionally getting closer to Ford. He let his shoulders fall and trudged over to the porch—pausing to pat Stella on the head as he passed her—and sat down beside Stanford with a grunt. He sat hunched, his forearms draped over his knees as he stared forward. He could feel Stanford looking at him and resolved to say nothing.

They sat in uncomfortable silence. Stan would have been okay with keeping it that way. If only Ford could have felt the same. The other man took a breath in, as if to speak, and Stanley made sure to cut him off. “Stella, sweetie, be careful. Don’t hurt your lil’ buddy there.”

She threw her arms around its neck as though offended. “His name is Felix but he said I can call him Lucky ‘cause that’s shorter ‘n I’m gonna teach ‘im how to walk on leashes ‘n go for rides ‘n then I’m gonna go for rides!” The faint bagpipe music seemed to intensify as that bug-eyed monster grinned at him, swishing its tail. Did it ever blink?

“Yeeeah, that thing has to go.” He whispered to himself, a bit startled as Ford responded.

“Oh. That’s a relief. I thought you’d want to keep it.”

Stanley grunted, a scowl reappearing. He rested his temple against his fist, wincing slightly at the dull ache that followed. He could feel Ford shifting beside him.

“Stan…”

“What, Ford?” His voice sounded dull, even to himself. After a too-long beat of silence, he turned his eyes towards the other man. Stanford stared back at him with that dumb, conflicted look of his. “Go on. Spit it out. You’re gonna ask it anyway, whether I want you to or not.” He ignored the man’s cringe.

Stanford kept quiet for a moment longer. “Are you okay?”

Stanley stared at the knucklehead beside him. _Seriously?_ He pursed his lips as his scowl deepened. Ford wilted.

“You’re right. I… I apologize.”

“Y’know—” Stan let out a frustrated huff and shifted his weight, his eyes widening as Stella came barreling into his lap. His eyes flitted down to the child. “Everything alright, pumpkin?” He tried to hold her at arms length, to look her over—pausing to glare at the leprehorse—but the toddler just made herself comfortable in his lap. “Alright, then.” He drawled, curling forward to peer at her face. “You feelin’ okay?” Oh. She was smiling. She was probably fine, then. He smoothed her hair away from her face and kissed a rosy cheek, earning himself a small giggle.

“Your hair tickles!”

He glanced down, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, it does?” He made a point of shaking his head, brushing his hair against her cheek. “I guess that’s just payback for all the times your hair tickled me, then.” He stopped, unable to help but chuckle at the child’s peals of laughter and rested his chin on the top of her head until she squirmed her way out of his grip seconds later in favor of reattaching herself to the rainbow eyesore in the yard. “Okay. Fair enough.”

“That was…remarkably sweet.”

“Yeah.” She was a good kid.

“Look, Stanley, I know you probably think our… _discussion_ last night was…unproductive, but—“

“It’s too early for this, Ford.” Stan sighed. “Could you give it a rest? Please. Just for a minute, even.” He heard Ford’s similar huff of dismay.

“ _Later,_ then.” the man promised.

Stanley hated promises like that. Promises were nothing but politely worded threats. He bristled. “ _Much_ later.”

“Stanley, I know this is…less than desirable, but it’s _important._ “

“Says who?”

The man beside him forced a gust of air from his nose. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what? Protective of my privacy?” Stan gave a dry huff. “Why are you even out here?”

Stanford winced. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Yes, you are. Why are you outside watching my daughter? You were so pissed about it last night when you thought you had to, even though no one asked you, but here you are now, watching her, _when no one even asked you to._ ”

“That was _different,_ you were…” Stanford paused, shaking his head. “It’s different.”

“It’s exactly the same and you know it.”

“I thought you were _gone,_ Stanley.” Stanford’s voice cracked. Stan wasn’t dumb enough not to notice that he tried to cover it with a cough.

_Gone._ Stanley could’ve broken his nose, right then and there.

“You thought I would leave her with you.”

“You can hardly blame me for a misinterpretation as such.”

He could, and he would.

“You figured I’m lowlife enough t’ leave in the middle of the night and abandon my child with a stranger.”

“Don’t say it like that. It’s not _like_ that.”

Stanley buried his face in his hands, rubbing them back and forth for a moment before lifting his head. “How big of a deadbeat do you think I am, Ford?”

“I don’t—”

“ _How big of a deadbeat do you think I am?_ ” His lips slowly curled over his teeth, his jaw set.

“I _don’t,_ Stanley. I just think you’re a man, down on his luck, who—“

“Just ‘cause I told you some stuff—why, I still don’t know—doesn’t mean you get to…you don’t get t’ assume stuff about me.”

“Stanley, we’re… I’m talking about _before_ that.”

He blew a lock of hair out of his face. “ _And?_ ”

“ _And_ it’s not as though I _knew_ what your plans were, meaning it was well within the realm of possibility that you might have left.” his voice dropped to a whisper. “Again.” Stanley was sure he wasn’t supposed to hear that.

“Without my child.”

“You said it yourself, Stanley. Your… living situation is _less than ideal.”_

“So that makes you the better choice. For _my_ child.” Stan clenched and unclenched his fists, creating a slow and fuming tempo that trickled on like a lazy current.

“ _No, it doesn’t! That’s my point!”_ Stanford ran a hand back and forth through his fuzzy hair. “I don’t know the first thing about childcare.” Himself, either, if they were gonna be honest, Stan mused, “I just… I was awake. I was in the lab—er, living room, working on a paper, and—“

“Of course you were.”

“ _I was working on a paper,_ and I could _hear_ you. The front door was open, so I could hear Stella and the leprecorn, and I decided to step out and check on her. I was… worried that she might make her way to the forest again.”

_Him and that damn forest._ She knew better than to go out that far. She was little, not stupid.

He sat upright. “She’s mine to worry about. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t just _leave her_ for no reason.” He turned his baleful gaze towards Ford. “I’m still not sure why you called me here, but I definitely didn’t come here for you to watch her, so you don’t gotta worry on that front. I know how t’ take care of my own fuckin’ kid.”

“Stanley, that’s not what I meant at all.” he reached out for him, but Stanley stood before he could make contact.

Stan took in a deep breath. “Stella, sweetie, come back this way!” he called out. The child stared at him for a moment before she complied, her brown eyes locked with his as she made her way to the porch, dragging that thing along with her on unsteady legs. She had it in her arms, or as much of it as she could carry, so the weird little thing was half carried, half walking on its hind legs while the both of them grinned at the unfortunate situation. He couldn’t help but think about those times when she was still tiny, too small to talk but still insistent on trying to walk on her own beside him. She used to stare up at him the entire time, those big doe eyes scanning him like she’d find the answers to the universe. He snorted at the thought. He’d had to walk slowly back then. She took about five steps for each slow stride of his own, determined to keep up with him on those wobbly little legs. Things were slow-going on those days, but he didn’t mind. Six little digits would wrap around his pinky or his thumb and squeeze on like it was a lifeline. In a way, he guessed they were. That little deathgrip had prevented many a tumble.

He scooped her up once she got close. The baby automatically wrapped her arms around his neck and his face relaxed into a smile against the cheek that smushed up against his own.

_His_ baby.

_His._

He’d pleaded and begged and fought tooth and nail to make sure he’d be able to keep her. She was _loved._ She was _wanted._ He never wanted her to have to question that. He’d be _damned_ if he let anyone imply otherwise, even if she didn’t hear it herself.

“You hungry yet?” she shook her head, but he ignored the small movement. “Let’s see about getting you some breakfast.” His heavy footfalls groaned against the wooden floors and he paused, noticing a steady staccato between his own steps.

“Hey, ey, ey. No. Not you.” He grumbled, lifting his foot to nudge the horsechaun out of the threshold. That his foot was against the creature’s face was irrelevant. “You stay outside.”

The bagpipe music hit a sour note. Stanley shuddered. Ford was soon on his feet and grabbed the thing underneath it forelegs and lifted it, mumbling something Stan couldn’t quite catch about “abominations” and “affronts to nature” and “I hate this thing so much.” Stanley didn’t bother to wait to hear if Ford was behind him before heading to the kitchen.

≈

Stanford bounded up his porch steps and into the house, slamming the door shut behind him before the leprecorn could notice that he’d left it at the edge of the tree line. To both his dismay and benefit, the creature never seemed particularly observant. He let his eyes fall closed with a huff. So the day was starting out with a wrench tossed into his plans. _What else is new?_ He scowled briefly, his attention piqued at the pleasant noises coming from his kitchen. Noises that _should_ have been considered normal. He inched his way towards the rustling and his brother’s voice, surprisingly agreeable as he chattered to his small child. He’d pulled the masticated cereal box from its hiding place in the refrigerator and placed it on the table in front of Stella along with a bowl he’d fished out of an upper cabinet. Stella had been sat at the table, leaning across the wood as she watched her father shuffle uncomfortably around the kitchen.

“Here, princess.” He hummed, pouring milk into the girl’s cereal. Her eyes brightened.

Ford felt a faint smile cross his face. Maybe the cereal _had_ been a worthwhile investment. He hadn’t realized he’d placed himself against the doorway until Stanley caught his eye and sent him a withering stare. Well, shit. What had he done _now?_ Stanford sighed and took a step further into the kitchen as Stan sat beside Stella, watching with faint amusement as Stella climbed out of her chair in favor of his lap. Stanley heaved a fake, overdramatic sigh and lifted the child into his lap, sliding her bowl of cereal closer.

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad.”

Ford watched as the child grabbed the spoon in front of her in an awkward grasp, dribbling milk as she lifted it to her mouth. Stan didn’t seem too concerned about it; Ford supposed he shouldn’t either. He stood fixed for a moment longer, then made his way over to the fridge and pulled out the bag of eggs. If Stella was going to eat, it only made sense for them to follow suit. He hoped this time he wouldn’t scorch anything beyond recognition.

“What’s that?” Stella piped up, jerking Stanford from his thoughts.

“What d’ya think it is?” Stanley hummed.

“Eggs.”

“Then it’s eggs, pumpkin.”

She huffed. “But what’s it gonna be?”

“Why don’t you ask _that_?”

“What’s the eggs gonna be?”

“Oh. Uhm.” Ford stalled. “I was…planning on making eggs.” He heard Stanley snort.

“Why?”

“Because it’s…time for breakfast?” It was a reasonable enough assumption, Ford thought.

“That’s boring.” His niece announced, then turned her attention back to her brightly-colored cereal while Stanley shoved a bruised knuckle between his teeth to stifle his laughter. Ford supposed his eggs would pale in comparison to such…dietary excitement. As she stirred the bowl, he noticed the milk had turned blue. That couldn’t be good. Maybe Lucky-O’s _had_ been a bad idea. As he watched, Stella twisted her body around to face her father. He lifted a tired eyebrow.

“Yes?” _Moses,_ did the man look tired. _He has every right to be._ The young girl raised her spoon towards his face, discolored milk and soggy marshmallows sloshing as her unsteady hand wavered. Stanley simply reached up and steadied the small arm, leaning the rest of the way to clear the spoon. “Thank you, sweetie. Now, you finish the rest.”

“’Kay.” She held out another spoonful to the drawn, haggard man. He was a far cry from the baby-faced, brash boy he’d been when they were teens. If Stanford hadn’t seen him twice before, in increasing states of dishevelment, he wasn’t sure he’d have known the man on sight. He wondered if their Ma would recognize her youngest son the way he was now.

Stanford had other things to worry about, namely getting Stanley’s caught eggs into a skillet. He bit back a snort. The concept was still bizarre. Leave it to Stanley to get free thing by making the largest, messiest scene imaginable while simultaneously making it seem casual. It was a skill he’d never understand.

This time, he’d make sure not to burn the eggs.

≈

The eggs were surprisingly unburt, as was the toast he’d made on a whim, though both were slightly oversalted, curiously enough. Stanley seemed a bit surprised when Ford slid a plate in front of him, he noted with dismay. He placed himself across from the man and his child, his eyebrows rising at the sticky mess steadily spreading across his table. He opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it. Something didn’t feel right about continuing their earlier discussion with a child present. He settled his gaze down to his eggs, sparing the occasional glance up at his niece as she played with the remnants of her soggy cereal. He watched Stanley, uncomfortable and tentative, as he spun his fork through his plate. Ford wished he could say he knew it was due to his less-than-stellar cooking skills. Stan offered a forkful to Stella, who accepted it, then promptly returned to picking up marshmallows with her fingers. Was Stanley nervous about something? Stupid question. There was a laundry list of things potentially troubling the man. Gradually, the eggs disappeared, followed by the toast. Stanford was relieved.

“Geez, you’re sticky.” He heard Stanley mumble as he ducked and weaved to avoid the grimy little hand reaching for his face. Stanford stood and grabbed a paper towel, wordlessly handing it to his brother. His brother made no comment as he licked the towel, dabbing it at the child’s cheeks. Stella reared back with a wail and sent Ford’s heart rate skyrocketing in the process. She sounded _hurt._ The child weaved and bobbed, trying to avoid the paper towel.

“ _Stanley—”_

“What?” He patted her other cheek with the towel, then took one small hand in his and began to wipe it down as well. Stella scowled all the while, and Ford had to admit the child’s look of outrage was comical.

“N-nothing. She just…seemed very upset.”

“She’s a baby. They do that when you wipe their faces.” He mumbled. “Isn’t that right, little miss?” He pulled the child closer and blew a raspberry against her cheek, earning himself a squeal of laughter for his troubles. “Mmm-hmm. Thought so. _Ow!_ ”

Stella had twined her little fingers through Stanley’s hair and tugged, much to his apparent dismay. “Fine. Whatever.” Stanford’s niece wiggled to her knees and rested her head on Stanley’s shoulder, her grip on his disheveled hair still firmly intact. “Awww. You’re still sticky, though.” His hand came up to rub the small little back. Ford caught a glimpse of a grin before Stella shoved a finger in her mouth. “Uh uh uh, nuh uh. My hair’s dirty, sweetie, don’t put that in your mouth.” She did it anyway, Ford noted. Stan closed his eyes for a moment and leaned back in the kitchen chair, his hand still rubbing slow circles along his daughter’s back. It made for a sickeningly sweet moment, and Ford was reluctant to disturb it.

So he watched.

Stanley must’ve been absolutely exhausted to fall asleep sitting up with a child hanging onto him. It didn’t seem like the most comfortable of positions, though Ford was aware he wasn’t one to speak.

Maybe he should have felt grateful that the man seemed to have no problems with falling asleep in front of him. Instead, he just focused on the fact that Stanley was exhausted enough _to_ fall asleep like that.

The man jerked properly upright a few moments later, his eyes frantic as they swept the room. He looked a bit confused as he turned his head and his hair remained in place, halting the movement. “Oh, kiddo, seriously?” he sighed. “Don’t chew on my hair, that’s gross. I don’t want you gettin’ sick.” He scooted the chair back, easing himself into a standing position with Stella in his arms. “That can’t even taste good. C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up, little miss.” He gave her back another small pat as he carted her off. “I’ll…come back for that.” He mumbled before disappearing.

Come back for what? Oh. Stella had left cereal syrup across the table. Fair enough. Ford could get it, though. More or less. He carried the last remnants of breakfast to the sink and let them fall in with a _plunk._ He’d wipe the table later. Probably. It wasn’t important. Stanford made his way back to his lab-turned-living room and sat down with a sigh. He _did_ have projects he could have been finishing, but his mind was very much elsewhere. It was difficult to focus on research while mulling over the fact that his brother had been _homeless_ for twenty-odd years. _You knew he was homeless for at least part of his time away from home. This shouldn’t surprise you._ Why didn’t he reach out to anyone?

Who did he even have to reach out to? The ones who sent him away? Who did Stanley have beyond him, Ma, and Pa? The two of them were damn near loners growing up. Stan likely didn’t _have_ anyone else, not anyone who wasn’t in the same predicament as him, at least. Is that why he wouldn’t mention Stella’s mother? He wasn’t likely to know the mother anyway; he didn’t understand why Stanley seemed so loath to tell him anything about her. Was it that he was ashamed of her? He scowled slightly at the thought and pulled a stack of work closer. It wouldn’t do to ruminate on things he wouldn’t get answers to. Not without pulling teeth, at least.


	8. His Thorns Are On the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Free from it all_  
>  _Breathe in the darkest fall_  
>  _We laugh and cry through a brother’s eyes for now_  
>  _The Hunter_ —Mastodon
> 
> Stanford learns nothing, though he discovers many things he didn't expect all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long?? How did this happen??  
> This chapter is over TWICE the length of my average chapters, and to be fair I could've separated it into two chapters, but I didn't want to, so there's that? I hope it was worth the wait.  
> Even when I'm not posting, I'm still posting snippets of stuff on [tumblr](https://as-be-low.tumblr.com), so you can always come yell at me or ask me questions and stuff there. :]

Shortly after Ford had absorbed himself in his work, small footsteps flapped their way down the stairs. He looked up and spotted a blur of brown and black headed for the door before he heard it skid to a stop with a soft _whump_ against the sturdy wood. “…Stella, are you trying to go outside?” He inched his chair back, palms flat against the table.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Did… Did Stanley say it was okay for you to go outside?”

Silence.

“I’ll take that as a no, then.” Just as he moved to stand, the soft little footsteps padded into the room. He’d have to invest in a rug soon, he mused. The little girl sent a cursory glance around the room, her eyes brightening as they fell on Ford and his workstation. He hadn’t expected that. She squinted at him, long and hard.

“Books?”

He hadn’t expected that, either. He stared down at her, doing nothing to hide his confusion as she toddled over. Her hair had been washed and pulled back into loosely-braided pigtails and Stan’s—no, this was his, actually—shirt billowed around her like a tent. Stanley had rolled the sleeves up so that they bunched up around her little elbows. She made herself at home and grabbed hold of his pant leg for leverage as she climbed into his lap. He remained still, unsure of whether he should help her or remove her from his person. “Well, hello?”

“Hi.”

“Is there…something I can help you with, dear?” From this vantage point, Ford could see the small little spirals of hair at the nape of her neck that had escaped and decided to make a name for themselves.

He could also see the little flecks of Stanley’s blood that had dried along the neckline.

Her little hands trailed over his stacks of papers and he leaned forward with her, pushing them out of her reach. She stretched further and claimed a dense, spiral-bound article for herself.

“Books.”

“I’m afraid you won’t want that one.” He eased it from her grasp and set it aside, raising an eyebrow at her little harrumph. “Was it picture books you wanted? I’m afraid I don’t have anything suitable for one as young as you, my dear…” he scanned the table with a slight frown of his own. “Well,” he unearthed a thick red book and pulled it close, staring at the gold-leaf cutout of his own hand. He shouldn’t.

He really shouldn’t, but the child wanted books. He wasn’t going to dissuade a child from literary endeavors. This journal he knew was at least slightly more child-appropriate. In some parts. Somewhat. It would be fine. He’d ripped out the more dangerous pages and anything pertaining to Bill after he’d reconfigured the portal and shut everything back down. There were many pages of mistakes he’d since burned, much like the bridges that led him to where he currently was. “Where’s your father?” he asked, affecting a casual tone. The man had been irritated at him when he’d sat with the child he’d brought into _his_ house earlier. He didn’t need him getting pissy at him again.

“Takin’ a sour.”

“Taking a… Oh, a shower.” Fine. That was fine. He’d just…watch the child for…however long that took. _Oh, sweet Moses, hurry up and come get her._

It was fine. This would be fine. He’d just show her the sketches. That should be enough to placate a child. That’s all children’s books were, anyway. A small hand patted his, then tried to push it out of the way. He let out a nervous chuckle and removed his hand. His niece turned and squinted up at him, then pushed the journal away and off of the edge of the table. “That bad, huh?” He stood, setting her on her feet as he went to retrieve it. “Well there might be _something_ you might find interesting in it. They _do_ say not to judge a book by its cover.” He chuckled at his own little joke. Stella’s face remained scrunched and she blew him a raspberry for good measure.

“…Right.” He reclaimed his seat and settled the toddler back in his lap. He supposed this was to be his afternoon now. Ford flipped the book open before she had a chance to push it away again, and began idly turning pages. He distinctly remembered cataloguing several of the more benign creatures he’d encountered in this particular journal. The small child slapped a hand against the pages as he flipped, stilling his hand.

“ _Birdperson!_ ” she beamed up at him. He stared in return.

“Ah, no, that’s the Mothman, not a… Not a bird person.” He tapped a finger to the heading he’d written. “See here? It says—”

“Mothman.”

He paused. Was she reading or imitating him? Surely she was too small for her literacy skills to have developed quite yet. “That’s…That’s right. The Mothman.”

“Why not a bird?”

How was he supposed to answer that? “Well, he didn’t _ask_ to be a moth over a bird, I don’t suppose...”

“You should write about birdperson.”

“Lets move on.” Ford gently nudged the little hand aside and turned the page. The offending little appendage reappeared along the edge of the book and Stanford stared at it before slowly dwarfing it with his own, letting his calloused thumb move run back and forth across her pudgy knuckles. _Baby soft holds merit as a description, it appears._ The child lifted her head to send him a puzzled look. “Right.” He lifted his hand and rifled through the journal, stopping on his leprecorn entry. Stella let out a little gasp.

“Lucky!”

“Yes, I’m afraid it’s your…little friend.”

“Lucky.” She corrected.

“Apologies.” He couldn’t help the chuckle that rumbled in his chest, nor the look of surprise as his niece leaned back against the source of the faint vibration.

“You purr like a kitty.”

 _What on earth?_ “If… If you say so.” He cleared his throat. “But yes. This is the…the leprecorn. Can… Can you say that?”

“Lep’core.”

“Good enough, I suppose.”

“Yeah.”

“Now—”

“That’s Lucky.” She slapped a hand against the sketch.

“Yes, I’m aware. The leprecorn is one of the…least interesting finds I’ve stumbled across.” He pulled the journal closer. “Stella, do you know what this says?”

She squinted at the page for a moment, then frowned back up at him. “I don’t wanna read that.”

Ford snorted. “Fair enough.” Maybe cursive was pushing it. It was probably best she didn’t read it. He truly had nothing positive to say about the beast she so loved.

“More pictures.”

“More?”

“More pictures, please?”

“I suppose you _did_ ask nicely.” He thumbed through the journal. The entry on unicorns was in here. The only issue was that unicorns were assholes and he didn’t care to validate their existence. The gremloblin was decidedly out of the question. He worried his lip between his teeth briefly, and pulled a small stack of clean paper closer. “Alright. What pictures would you like?” He watched the child begin to flip the pages, tiny handfuls at a time, with the easy recklessness that came with childhood. “No, no, none of that.” He tutted, gently prying the book from her grasp. She blew him another raspberry. _Cute._ “How about we draw you a horse? Like earlier.”

“’Kay!”

“Alright. Good.”

Stella settled back against his chest and he began to sketch the rough outline of a horse. He let a faint smile cross his face as his focus drifted away. His hand moved on its own, each pen stroke closely watched by the small child keeping her nose pressed against the page. It did make drawing a hair more difficult, he had to admit.

A pudgy little finger prodded his hand.

“Yes?”

“Draw it a unicorn?”

He hesitated. Unicorns were infuriating, but that wasn’t _her_ fault. She didn’t know that. He didn’t have to tell her they were real. “We can certainly make it a unicorn.”

“Yay!”

With the unicorn finished—though not without adding himself astride the beast for reasons he’d never understand—Ford found himself scribbling down Stella herself, holding onto her unfortunate beast of a friend.

“His name is Lucky! He’s a good uniperson. Yes he is. Yes.” She cooed, patting the page as he worked on it.

 _Odd, but all right, then._ Stanford shuddered as he hatched out the finer details of the creature’s features. Whatever the child saw in the bizarre monstrosity, he would never see himself. At least she seemed quite pleased with it all, if her increasingly animated, babbling comments were anything to go by. It gave Stanford pause to see that anyone, a small child, no less, would seem to enjoy _his_ company. She didn’t know any better. Not yet.

_She’ll learn soon enough._

The floor began to creak and groan as heavy footsteps drew closer. His brother hunched in the doorway, a slight scowl in place. He seemed to wear that frown often; Ford wasn’t sure if it was for his benefit or if it had come to replace that easygoing smirk Stan had once perfected as his resting expression.

He said nothing as he entered the room, just sat in the chair furthest from Stanford and…zoned out. Stanford watched him for a brief moment. His hair was thrown behind him in a wet, loose braid, much like the plaits he’d given Stella. His ratty red jacket was zipped up in lieu of the shirt he’d put on Stella and what looked to be the jeans he’d arrived in. Surely he’d prefer wearing something else. He opened his mouth to proffer the suggestion, but caught the tired, frustrated look Stanley shot him from the corner of his eye and promptly let his mouth snap closed. _Never mind, then._ He’d just…go back to sketching things with Stella. _She_ seemed happy, at least. The toddler was currently tugging at a fresh sheet of paper. He reached out and straightened it in front of her. “Are you planning on drawing?” he hoped his tone was nonchalant.

“No, you draw it.” _Well, alright then._

“Sweetie, can you say ‘please?’ You gotta ask things nicely.” Stanley interjected.

Stella squirmed in Ford’s grip and twisted to face him, staring him down. He wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a death stare or puppy dog eyes, if he was honest with himself. He found both compelling; she had that going in her favor. “Please?”

“Absolutely.” He mumbled, huddling forward slightly. “What am I drawing?”

“Everybody!” she cheered, slapping her little hands against the table.

 _Shit._ “Everyone? That sounds like quite the…quite the tall order.” Ford let out a nervous chuckle.

“Me ‘n Daddy ‘n you. ‘N Lucky.” He heard Stanley’s hardly-contained snort at her afterthought and looked up in time to catch him rolling his eyes. _Nice_.

“Sweetie, how many things have you made ‘im draw already?” she shrugged. “What if he doesn’t _want_ to draw anymore? Don’t make ‘im tired. That’s not nice.”

“He isn’t tired.” Stella sounded affronted.

“You sure? Did you ask?”

Ford chewed his lip. “I don’t mind, really.” Stan eyed him and Ford shifted under the scrutiny.

“You don’t hafta do it just ‘cause she asked.”

“I don’t mind, Stanley. Truly, I don’t.”

Stan seemed uncomfortable with that. “Yeah, well…” His brother crossed his arms, turning his gaze away.

Ford patted the tabletop gently. “Now. Who shall I start with first?”

“Daddy.”

 _So matter-of-fact._ He should’ve seen that one coming. “Alright then. We’ll start with… We’ll start with Daddy.” The word still felt strange tumbling from his mouth. He worked a rough outline of the man, sparing surreptitious glances upwards to scrutinize his subject. It was disheartening, needing a reference to draw your twin brother.

The three sat in silence, save for the soft scratches of Stanford’s pen. “I assume I’m drawing you next?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, then.” He shifted his hand, when Stella slapped her palm over it.

“Draw me there.”

“…In his arms? I’ve already drawn them by his side. I don’t think that will turn out properly, I’m afraid.

She wrinkled her nose at that. “Okay. Draw me there?” One pudgy little finger shifted down to the space near Stanley’s feet, where he’d originally planned to place her.

“Alright.” He drawled, nudging the damp little hand away, slightly disconcerted by its warmth and sogginess. Children were _strange._ He slowly sketched the little girl, though he found himself needing to contort on more than one occasion to study her little face; she was too preoccupied with watching his hands move to look up as he tried to coax her to look at him. It became a challenge to work around the child as she stuck her head and various limbs in his line of vision. “That’s a very nice foot, but could you move it?” he chuckled, patting the pudgy little leg. She responded with a giggle and a small kick to the arm. He pretended to be hurt. It _was_ minutely painful, he reasoned. He hadn’t expected her to sit up from her contorted, reclined position to kiss his forearm better.

“Now it won’t hurt.” He was a bit choked as he nodded, swallowing to work at the frog forming in his throat.

“Y-yes. Thank you, darling.” He mumbled. “That feels much better.” It did. It truly did.

“I know.” The toddler hummed. _How cheeky._ Just like another child he remembered. Ford closed his eyes and hunched forward, ignoring the look Stan was surely sending him in favor of pressing his nose into the child’s clean hair as he fought back the sting in his eyes. Her hair was still wet, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind.

Ford finished the rest of the sketch with minimal fanfare, quickly slapping his own likeness onto the page and attempting to do the same with the leprecorn, though his niece quickly called him out on the attempt. “Oh, of course. You have my apologies.” He’d mumbled at his gaffe while grudgingly adding more detail to the well-loved monstrosity.

Once the sketch met the child’s arbitrary and unknown specifications she slid out of Ford’s lap—much to his alarm as he tried to stop her from falling—and took the liberty of taking the paper down with her as she made her way to her father.

“Whatcha got there, pumpkin?”

“A picture.”

“A picture, huh? Let’s see it, then.”

She held the sheet high in the air as she tried to hike her leg up high enough to reach Stanley’s crossed knee. “Oop!” she stumbled and Stan jerked forward, lifting her to properly settle her in.

“You’d climb mountains if only you could get that lil’ leg high enough, wouldn’t ya?”

“Yeah.”

Stanley laughed. “That’s my girl.”

Drawing sufficiently made-over, Stella slid out of Stan’s lap, choosing to settle at his feet for reasons that, once again, eluded Stanford.

“You wanna color it, sweetie?”

“Yeah!”

“Good idea.” Stanley hummed as Stella toddled back over to the table, reaching up on the tips of her toes to grab the assorted, stubby crayons she’d used the day before. Ford nudged them closer to her, watching in amusement as she grabbed them in both hands and ran back to sit cross-legged between her father’s feet.

“ ’M gonna make it pretty.”

“Very nice.” Stanley hummed, watching his child with one eyebrow raised. “They’re nice already, but I bet you can make ‘em look even better.”

The three sat in silence. Stanley didn’t seem to mind, but Ford found it unbearable. He shouldn’t feel so _uncomfortable_ at the thought of speaking with his brother. He needed to say _something._ He didn’t know what to say, or how to say it, but he knew something needed vocalizing.

He settled for talking to Stella.

“So… You like coloring?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s… that’s good.” _For fuck’s sake, Ford. Get it together._ “Do you like school?”

The child stared at him.

“She’s not old enough to be in school, Ford.”

“…Oh. Right. Of… of course.” _Fuck. Why is this hard?_

“Soo. What’s your favorite animal, then? Besides… Besides the leprecorn. _Uniperson_. Excuse me. Besides that.” He mumbled. “Maybe we can switch it out.”

He heard Stan snort.

“All the animals!”

“All of them? Even snakes?” Children didn’t like those, did they?

“Snakes can’t be animals. They’s snakes.”

“Of course. Apologies.” Ford drawled.

“Geez, Ford. Get it together.” Stanley chuckled, much to Ford’s surprise.

“What’s your favorite color?”

The child sat up for a moment, wrinkling her little features in thought. “I like green!”

“Green? That’s a nice color.”

“Now you ask.”

Ford was confused. “Pardon?”

“You gotta ask Daddy’s favorite color.”

“I know Stanley likes red.” Did he still like red? How embarrassing it would be if he didn’t.

Stella crossed her arms. “You gotta ask.”

“Stan, what's your favorite color?”

He removed his knuckles from in front of his mouth with a roll of his eyes that Ford almost missed. “Red.”

“Now you ask.”

Stan sighed. “What's your favorite letter?”

“Red—what? _What?_ You're supposed to ask my favorite color.”

“Wild card. Switchin' it up.”

“My favorite letter is S.”

“S for Stanford? That's a copout.”

“How is that a copout? What's your favorite letter, then?” Ford leaned back, folding his arms.

“The letter S.”

“Oh, good grief, Stanley. What's your favorite food?”

“Uhh, Ma's roast beef. You?”

“I also enjoy Ma's roast.”

“Me too.”

Stan and Ford both looked down at Stella in faint amusement mixed with confusion.

“I’m glad you like it, too, sweetie.” He scooped her back into his arms to place a kiss on the top of her head.” There was a lull. “I can't remember the last time I had roast beef. Or the lil’ potato balls she’d put inside with the carrots. Those were nice.”

Ford bit his lip. “We could try to make it ourselves.”

“It's not that serious.“ Stan looked uncomfortable.

“Why not? You and I both—excuse me— _all three of us_ like it, and neither of us have had it in ages.” He snorted. Another lull.

“It could be fun.”

“Ford.”

“Well, Thanksgiving is coming up, is it not? It’s not the most _traditional_ meal, but…it’s still an option.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Why would we even be here that long?” Stanley shifted Stella with a sigh. “Roast beef is _not_ a Thanksgiving food. Why are you even talking about Thanksgiving?”

“Then we’ll have to do a roast beef alongside a turkey.”

“There’s no way in He—no way in _heaven_ that could _possibly_ sound like a good idea. _No way._ We won’t—”

“Variety, Stanley.”

“‘Variety,’ my foot. That’s too much food. _Why are we even talking about Thanksgiving?”_

“We have to eat _something_ either way, and this just gives us a better range of leftovers to choose from. It’s sound reasoning.”

“For the love of—you know what? Fine. Why not?” Ford would have been lying if he said that reluctant concession on Stan’s part hadn’t given him hope. Asinine or not, Stanley _agreed to stay and do something with him._ It was an important step forward, in his opinion. “It’ll be an absolute cluster—uh, _fustercluck_ , but _fine._ ” Stan jiggled the child in his lap, though Ford couldn’t be sure if his leg wasn’t bouncing in agitation. Stella seemed pleased, for whatever reason, and opened her mouth to let out a happy little shriek.

_“Fustercl—!”_

Ford’s eyes widened. Stanley cut the child off with a swift kiss to the cheek, which quickly turned into a loud raspberry. The toddler squealed, one little leg stuck high in the air.

“Nothin’ slips past you, huh? Does it? _Does it?_ ” Stanley affected an angry tone—which was ruined by the grin that stretched his cheeks—and jiggled his daughter with each question. “You lil’ gremlin. What’m I gonna do with you? Huh?”

Stella dissolved into laughter and contorted herself backwards. A broad hand shot up to support her back, letting her flail back as she pleased while he tickled her tummy. Her rosy little foot found its way back to Stan’s face and he blew on it briefly before scooping her back upright.

“Ohh, you ‘n this foot’re really somethin’ today,” he sang tunelessly, “aaaand, I’m guessin’ you don’t want it since it stays in everyone’s face! I guess it means I’ll have! To! Eat it up, eat it up, eat! It! Up!”

He curled his lips over his teeth and doubled the child over backwards across his legs, grabbing the little foot to nip at her heel. “Omnomnom. Nomnomnom.” He paused briefly in his ditty to watch her giggle and squirm, his eyes filled with a level of warmth Stanford wasn’t sure he’d ever seen. Was he _grinning?_ Truly grinning? Fatherhood had really done a number on him. Ford hadn’t realized his brother was even capable of handling anything with such overt care. It seemed that he would never cease to rattle his expectations.

He continued his song, slightly muffled though it was by the twelve small toes that wiggled against his nose and jaw. “’N since you don’t want either of ‘em, someone’s gonna hafta call ‘im! Gotta call the foot monster!” he paused to tickle her again. His little niece squealed. “’N then the foot monster came ‘n ate all the feet, ‘case he’s a really weird guy ‘n we should talk to ‘im about that maybe. But he came ‘n ate the feet, I guess…” He trailed off.

A smile broke across Ford’s own face and he couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled forth. Stanley jolted and looked around, pulling himself and his child perfectly upright. His eyes settled on Ford with what looked to Ford to be bewilderment. He fell silent.

His discomposure would unsettle them both, it seemed. Stanford couldn’t mask the startled look that crossed his face at his brother’s abrupt change in demeanor. His nostrils flared briefly as a puff of air hissed out. The singing had stopped, and there seemed to be no hope of Stanley starting back up. The man stared stiffly ahead for a moment, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he shifted Stella in his lap, pulling her into a proper, seated position. From the looks of it, she was content to play with Stanley’s hands folded across her tummy.

_Well, fuck._

He’d only _chuckled._ He didn’t know it would ruin the moment so thoroughly. Ford held back a sigh of his own and burrowed down in his chair, settling for watching the two remain idly seated. How could he fix this? This wasn’t a machine that could be analyzed and diagnostics run. These were Stan’s emotions, a shuddering, amorphous beast that writhed and balked at stimuli that Ford could not gauge. He didn’t know if the man himself could do it, either. He bit back an agitated bark of laughter. _‘Who’s driving this thing,’ indeed._

His eyes lingered on the dingy cuff of Stanley’s jacket sleeve as his wrist moved, slowly and rhythmically patting his daughter’s pudgy little tummy. Six tiny digits fumbled with Stan’s wristwatch. _Oh._ She was still wearing the shirt he’d lent Stanley. He’d forgotten for a moment that she was running around in twice-borrowed clothing.

He cleared his throat, breaking the burgeoning silence that was taking over once again.

“If… If you want, we can go ahead and start a load for the washing machine.” Ford offered, wincing internally at the hopeful uptick his voice took on.

“No, thanks.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s…just a few things. S’not enough to worry about.”

“And what are you going to do in the meantime?”

“I can just do it later. No big deal.”

“ _Stan_.” Ford shot him a look.

“Oh, for—What?”

“If you’re going to have to do it regardless, it follows that it would be easiest to do it _here,_ when required— _now,_ for instance, as opposed to…somewhere with a considerably less convenient layout.” The man scowled back at him.

“Don’t see why you’re puttin’ so much thought into this. Sheesh.”

“You make it sound unreasonable.”

“Because it _is.”_

Ford sniffed. “I—”

“Maybe later, okay?” Later? When the hell was later? Everything they wore was dirty _now._ The uncomfortable stillness grew heavier in the room, unbearably so as Stanley began to hunch over and curled in on himself, blocking Stella from view as he pulled her closer. The child seemed used to this apparent routine and hunkered down without so much as a peep. She had been babbling to herself moments before, but as soon as Stan doubled over, she quieted and moved to tuck herself away as though through muscle memory. From what little Stanford could still see of her face, she seemed completely unperturbed by it all. That worried him. He chewed on his lower lip. What was he supposed to do? He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue crumbled to chalk behind his teeth.

He’d have to wait it out, it seemed.

He waited a great deal longer than he would have hoped.

The silence remained thick; from what he could tell, Stella was still content to alternate between playing with her hands and the tassel of Stan’s braid, and otherwise made no sound or movement. What child could remain that still and quiet? Ford was a grown man and found himself growing agitated and restless. Though he was somewhat grateful for the knowledge that respite in silence was possible from her should he ever need it, but he wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be _normal._ _Little old lady, indeed._

When Stanley finally did unfurl, it was a slow process and he refused to look anywhere but down. When he dared to look around, the eye Ford caught was defiant and wary all at once. He shifted Stella in his arms and she seemed to take it as some sort of cue and returned to her babbling, humming some little song she made while Stanley patted her chubby little legs. _At least someone’s content with this situation._ Ford had set this whole incident off, hadn’t he? He was a useless brother, constantly causing his tween anguish. He stared off with unfocused eyes, and was jerked back into cognizance when Stanley let out an undignified squawk. Stella was upside down with a foot pressed into his collarbone. Again. “Seriously, what is it with you ‘n this foot today? Hm? Please don’t be a kicker. Or a biter. Please don’t go back to biting.” He worked his jaw with a wince as he pleaded.

Ford needed to get him more arnica. The bruises would linger otherwise. Ford rested his mouth against the heel of his hand, fingers splayed across his cheek. Why couldn’t he talk to his brother without provoking an incident? Why was it all so _difficult?_

≈

For the life of him, Stanley couldn’t figure out why Ford couldn’t just leave well enough alone. What did it matter to him whether or not he did laundry? _Get real._ Ford always had to go above and beyond with everything. He always had. Stanley knew this. Regardless, his laundry wasn’t something to make a big deal out of. He’d already scrubbed Stella’s stuff in the sink and laid it out to dry. His own things would take longer, but that was fine. It was a non-issue.

He saw the looks Ford kept shooting his way. He didn’t need any more of that. Ford may have known his living situation was a mess, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try to hold on to the last of his pride ~~while he still could~~. He could almost _smell_ the pity coming. He couldn’t stomach it. He just wanted his _privacy._ This whole thing was starting to set him on edge. For years, he’d been alone and estranged from the people he cared about. ~~To say they cared about him in return seemed like a bit of a stretch after roughly 20 years’ separation.~~ People went out of their way to ignore his presence, though there’d been more shock and shuffling, hesitant eye contact thrown into the mix since Stella arrived onto the scene. Him opening up to people only ended with him bleeding and left to rot in a prison cell or with him stupidly hoping that things would change, _just this once,_ only to have his chest torn open and salt poured in with a serves-you-right as a garnish. The first time Stanley met up with family after years tramping around on his own had ended in a five-year shitshow. They both knew _this_ , at the very least. Affection for Stanley was inherently out-of-place and to be suspicious of. So what in the fresh hell was all of _this?_ It made his skin crawl. This wouldn’t end well. It _couldn’t._ _No way in Hell._ Stanford had to have _something_ planned for him, and it had to be something awful. Nobody went out of their way to be kind for kindness’ sake; they always wanted something in return. And Stanley, fool that he was, had been fool enough to pay that toll time and again.

This was his carrot. He’d just have to wait it out until the time came to get the stick.

With his luck, the stick would be a branch.

He sat up, setting his jaw, letting his eyes trail around. He spotted Ford’s uneasy glance his way, but chose to ignore it. Whatever it was, he’d ask him soon enough. And this time, he’d be prepared for it. He wouldn’t put his heart on his sleeve to get ripped off ~~and burnt away~~ again.

“Stanley.” _Here we go._ “Is everything…are you alright?”

“Just peachy, Ford.” The ropelike tendon in his neck twitched and rolled as he scowled ahead. Was that a fish tank across the room? Why was it stuck in the dark? Stan decided he didn’t care.

“No you aren’t.” the man mumbled under his breath.

A certifiable fuckin’ genius, Stanford was. What was Stan supposed to say to that? What the hell? “Askin’ stupid questions, then, are we? Just for fun?”

“I didn’t—Stanley, it’s not even _like that._ Why are you doing this?”

“I’m not doin’ a _thing_ , Ford. Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” What in the hell was the point of all this? They were both nice and quiet, and then he had to go and ask these awkward, loaded questions. Then he had the audacity to _complain about it_ _when he answered_.

The other man sighed. “Don’t be like this. Please.”

“Like I said, I’m not doin’ anything. Please. Why don’t you tell me what it is you think I’m doin’, since it bothers you _so much._ ”

“What is it with this sudden—ugh.” Ford groaned, lifting his glasses to stroke the bridge of his nose. “Why are you being so _standoffish_ all of a sudden?” he huffed, scowling across the room at him. “Is this because I asked you if you wanted to do _laundry?_ ”

Stan could’ve punched him for that incredulous tone. So he thought he was doing him a favor? As condescending as he was? It was a wonder Stanford didn’t get hit wherever he went. _Nope, that’s just me, probably._ Stan snorted.

“I’m glad you find this funny.”

“With this nonsense? Somebody has to.” He watched Ford’s upper lip curl under and flatten against his teeth.

“ _Nonsense?_ For fuck’s sake, Stanley, all I did was ask you a simple question!” Stanley didn’t notice the small thud as a small cheek pressed against his chest.

“Why can’t you just let this _go?_ ”

“Really? Would _you_ let it go if you were in my place? You act like I shouldn’t even _care._ ”

“That’s because you _shouldn’t._ ”

“You can’t _possibly_ believe that. Stanley, you’re—”

“What? I’m _what,_ Ford? Family? I’m your _brother?_ Is that what you want to hear?” He let out a wheezing laugh. “You expect me to believe that matters to you?”

“Of. Course. It. Does.” He rumbled, his words precise and clipped through grit teeth.

“Ohh, it matters. Right.” _Bullshit. Absolute bullshit._ “It sure as hell didn’t matter to you up until _now._ ” Stanley took a bit of perverse satisfaction in the other man’s flinch. Enough to miss the squeeze around his middle.

“That’s absolutely not true.”

“Ohh. It isn’t, huh? Figures, then. Stupid Stanley, missing the obvious again. Well, then. Fuck _me_ for not noticing, am I right?” His hand began to pat his daughter’s back as she began to fuss, as if on autopilot. His glare never left Stanford’s face.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“You really want me to answer that?”

Ford let out a bitter laugh and shook his head, his grin lined with frustration. “You are so full of shit, you know that?”

“To be honest, you keep your head so far up your own ass, I’m surprised you noticed.”

“ _Damnit, Stanley!”_ Stanford snarled. “You _absolute—”_ he was cut off by the wail that emanated from Stanley’s lap. It started out low, more of an insistent whine, but quickly pitched up to an outright sob. Both men froze. Stella was crying.

“Ah, shit.” Stanley wheezed, tightening his arms around the child. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to scare you. _So_ sorry.” He began to rock her side to side, pausing as she pushed herself away. “Oh, sweetheart…” he sighed. His little girl was doing her best to glare up at him, though her efforts were marred by the little hand rubbing at her wet eyes as she sobbed. He began to bounce her, which only served to make her cries come out as hiccups. “Oh, sweetie...” He pulled her close once more and stood, attempting to cradle her head close as she pushed and wiggled and fussed.

“No!” She twisted and writhed, nearly toppling out of his arms as she pushed herself away. _Oh, geez._ This wasn’t an ordinary bout of fussing, infrequent though they were. She was legitimately _upset._

“D’you want your paci?” he flinched, dodging an arm. “Okay, yeah. Paci.” He stole a quick kiss to her cheek, putting himself well within slapping range. She landed a weak shove to his jaw. There was no real force behind it, though it hurt all the same and on several levels. Stanley inched down into a crouch and set her on the floor, watching for a moment as she tossed herself back against the floor with a _whump_. “Oh, babygirl, don’t hurt yourself. Here,” he darted of towards the stairs in a full sprint. “Paci, paci, where the fuck is the pacifier?” He knew he still had it. Those things were expensive, and even though she was weaned, it still calmed her down on the odd occasions when she got herself really worked up. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck.”_ Was it in the car? He hoped not. He stumbled into Ford’s guest room and headed straight for the haphazard pile of his and Stella’s belongings. He tossed his stuff aside and grabbed a small drawstring bag, tearing into it with a fervor. How in the hell had they managed to start a fight in front of a child? She was _right there the whole time._ Not in another room, she didn’t toddle over into the scene; _she was in his lap the entire time_. “Shit.” He could keep his cool. He _knew_ he could. So why did he have to lose his goddamn mind when it came to Stanford? _We just bring out the worst in each other._

To be fair, Stanley brought out the worst in most people.

He rifled through the bag, his shoulders falling slightly in relief as his fingers hit soft rubber. _Got it._ He dropped the bag onto the floor and promptly threw himself back down the stairs, nearly tripping, and headed immediately back into the room full of screaming.

“—sorry, sorry, I am _so sorry—”_ Stanford looked up in alarm from his new position on the floor. He held an uneasy hand out towards Stella, who was having none of it. _What the fuck is that supposed to do?_ The kid didn’t want a hand hovering over her. What was the point in that?

He crouched down beside the two of them—as far away from Stanford as was possible—and scooped the flailing child back into his lap. “Here. Sweetie—don’t—” he narrowly missed an accidental headbutt and held out the pacifier, frowning at a bit of lint stuck to it. He stuck it into his own mouth, ignoring the horrified look Ford sent him in the process, and readjusted his grip on the hysterical little girl. “Hnh.” He spoke around the rubber between his teeth before popping it out of his mouth, pressing it towards hers. “I can almost guarantee you Ma did the same to all of us, so don’t even.” He grumbled. It took a few moments, but she finally seemed to realize what she was being offered and sucked the purple piece of rubber into her mouth with an indignant murmur. She pushed away his hand, but Stan didn’t mind. This was definitely an improvement and with any luck, she’d start to calm herself in a short while. _Or not._ She slapped the arm that braced her back and he withdrew, making the gentlest noises he could at her. _Eventually,_ she’d calm down. He knew Ford was staring at him, but he ignored it. _Let him be uncomfortable._ He hoped he was confused, too, just out of spite.

It was a while before Stella would allow him to pick her up. The pair watched the child squirm and settle in Stanley’s arms, her large brown eyes falling heavy-lidded as her tears slowed and her sobs turned into hiccups. Stanley’s chest ached with each one. He swayed gently on the floor, lulling her to sleep with his heartbeat. She startled herself upright with a particularly loud _hic._ She pushed herself away from Stanley’s chest to peer around the room, her eyes settling on Ford with a scowl. The little girl raised a hand to point an accusatory finger at the man.

“ _Sorry_.” She insisted, her little glare darkening as the man squirmed. _Ha! Atta girl!_ That was definitely his child right there.

“I… I am? I mean, I am, so..?” _That’s right, baby girl. Make him squirm._

She contorted once again in his lap to face him, sticking a tiny little finger into his bicep. “ _Ow.”_

“ _Sorry.”_ She repeated. Sorry? What kind of Benedict Arnold shit was this? He had a scowl of his own.

“Stella, honeypie—”

“ _No. Sorry.”_

“I don’t…” Ford trailed off. Stanley rolled his eyes.

“She wants us to apologize to each other, genius.” It was Ford’s turn to frown.

“Darling, I—”

“ _Say. Sorry!”_ she snapped. Ford jumped.

“Alright, dang. Geez, we’ll do it, okay?” Stanley patted her leg. She folded her arms. It would’ve been comical if she hadn’t been so upset. “I… Ugh. Fine. I’m sorry. There, you happy, tiny tyrant?”

“I… I also apologize.” Ford squirmed under the scrutiny the child gave him.

“You have to say sorry.”

“I just apologized.”

“Use the approved words, dingus.” Ford shot him a sour look and seemed ready to open his mouth to say something stupid. He must’ve thought better at the last moment.

“I’m sorry as well _, Stanley_.”

“There. Better?”

“Now you have to hug.”

“No, we don’t.”

“ _Yes._ Hug.”

“Nope.” Stanley drawled, popping the _p._

“Yes.”

“Stella, honey, no.” he sighed, running a hand across his scalp. “That’s askin’ a little much.”

She spat out the pacifier. “You say sorry ‘n then you hug it better. Yes.”

“Sweetie, that’s for little kids.”

“ _Now you hug it better._ ”

“Yeesh. Tiny grandma. You’re a tiny grandma, you know that?” he patted her little back, hoping it would placate her. No such luck.

“Hug it better.”

“You really aren’t gonna let this go, are you?” He slid her out of his lap and plopped her on the floor beside him, popping the pacifier back into her mouth. “Let it never be said that you don’t know what you want.”

She sucked on the pacifier, the round rubber circle bobbing furiously for a moment as she stared up with still-damp doe eyes. And damp nose. He needed to wipe her soggy nose before she did the honors herself. “Hug?”

“Oh, for—fine. _Fine._ ” With a groan, Stanley ambled up to his feet. “It’s a good thing you’re so cute.” Ford followed suit soon after and Stan avoided the man’s face. He didn’t need to see whatever stupid look he was sending him. His scowl pointed downwards towards the man’s collarbone as they stood facing one another. _Alright, let’s get this over with._ Stanley leaned in for a loose, quick one-armed shoulder hug, letting out an indignant squawk as Ford dragged him in closer. _Ah, geez._

≈

Stanford, fool that he was, had been expecting an actual hug. He threw his arms around the man’s torso and pulled him in tight, noting with dismay how quickly he went limp in his grasp. He was dead weight, just balancing on his feet. Stanford might as well have been propping an oversized fish upright.

This wasn’t his brother. Stanley wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was _nothing_ like the affectionate child he’d grown up alongside.

The Stanley _he_ knew would have thrown around him and nearly toppled them both over, like he _used to._ He would’ve said something corny to lighten the mood, and laughed them both to the floor. Instead, he was just _there._ There, but not as he remembered. _Nothing_ like he remembered. When it came to Ford, Stanley was like an elaborate substitute of what he had been; one that lacked his _essence_. What had he done to break his spirit so thoroughly? How much of it was Ford’s own fault?

With a sigh, Ford’s grip fell slack, his arms slipping down to his sides. The man had vehemently protested, argued even with a _child_ over the prospect of hugging him. What had he expected?

Naturally, just to spite Ford, the man brought an arm up to slap him on the back a few times, just when he was about to step away. His look of surprise must have been interesting. “I’m glad I could be of entertainment to you.” He drawled.

“Pfh. Don’t think so highly of yourself. You always make weird faces.”

“I didn’t expect… I stopped expecting reciprocation.” He cleared his throat as he spoke. Stan rolled his eyes, turning to scoop up the child who so graciously lifted her arms to be carried.

“There, princess. Happy now?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Well, you make it kinda hard to do anything when you put a man in a chokehold, Ford.” He grumbled, refusing eye contact once again. The excuse was a pathetic one, but it made Stanford smile all the same.

He’d take what he could get.

≈

Stella was blowing raspberries at him. Stan sighed a bit; he guessed he deserved them. He hoisted her weight in his arms and leaned back so that he could see her face. She was busy looking around, her little head tilting to and fro as she explored from her new vantage point, blowing raspberries all the while. _Oh._ She was just making noises. That was fair. He’d make noises, too, if he was three.

He strained his neck upwards to plant kisses on her salty little cheeks, earning himself a well-welcomed giggle and a swipe of her nose across his shoulder. “Oh, how nice.” He hummed, wincing all the while. He’d seen that one coming. She rested her head on his shoulder—the clean one, he noted—with a hum, earning herself a chuckle in the process. She’d tired herself out with all that crying, most likely.

Not that he blamed her for it.

His hand came up to rub soft circles along her back. He wasn’t quite sure where he was walking; just back and forth between rooms and along the hallway as Stella began to nod off. He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to forget his _child_ was in his lap before getting into it with someone. As many run-ins as he’d had, _that_ had _never_ happened before. He must’ve been getting complacent. Or just particularly riled up. Neither would do.

He swayed side to side. “You asleep?” No answer. He’d just take that as a yes. _Sweet lil’ girl._ As uncomfortable as it had been, she’d only wanted him and Ford to patch it all up. One stupid hug wasn’t gonna fix all their problems, but she was just a baby. She couldn’t know that. And he’d do his best to make sure she wouldn’t have to.

He inched his way to the stairs and up, sighing at the state of the room. He’d torn it apart looking for that damn pacifier, and had left a wreck strewn everywhere. “Okay, kiddo. Down you go.” He tiptoed around the bag he’d dumped onto the floor and placed her at the head of the bed, tugging her grimy blanket around her. Maybe he _should_ wash the thing. It was a soft little blanket someone had given her, stuffed into an old baby bag along with clothes her kid had outgrown. It was the nicest thing Stan had seen in a long while.

People weren’t nice to Stan.

It was a simple fact. A baby, though? People were nice to babies sometimes. He remembered a few times, times when she was really small and he had no other choice, he would sit somewhere, a park or in front of a store, and people would send them both the dirtiest looks they could muster. He heard the mumbling, he wasn’t _that_ stupid. He knew they thought she was just a sympathy ploy. She was his child. He couldn’t help it. If he needed to panhandle, she had to be with him. There wasn’t another choice. Stanley didn’t really care how people saw him, he’d stopped worrying about that a long time ago. ~~He knew how they felt about him. It wouldn’t change~~. He’d be damned if they looked at his child that way, though.

He grew fed up with those dirty looks soon enough, and began covering her with whatever he had. He’d zip her into his jacket, cover her head with a scarf, it didn’t matter. What mattered was making sure she wasn’t seen, and most importantly, that _she_ wouldn’t have to see _them_ and their ugly judgmental looks. It didn’t matter to him that she was too small to really remember any of this. He didn’t want her to see it.

It was easier to be the man ignored than the man whose child was sneered at.

He leaned forward, pressing a smooch to her little forehead. _Lil’ sweetie._ He turned and stared once again at the disaster spilled across the floor. Great. Now he had to clean up this mess. Stanley squatted down. _Here we go._ He shoved the drawstring bag’s contents back inside, then tucked it back into the baby bag. The little back was mostly full of her things from infancy; pacifiers and bottles and the sippy cup he still needed to finagle back together. He wouldn’t throw it away, she might need it again later on, much like the pacifier.

Stanley’s own belongings went back into a small heap on the chair. He kept his crud separate from Stella’s. There was no need for him to dirty up her things with his own. She had to have at least _something_ of her own to herself. He knew he should get a bag of his own, but he’d lost the duffel bag he used to carry—the one that’d been packed and waiting for him when he was seventeen—and he’d never gotten around to getting another one. His money was better spent on other things.

Once finished straightening up, Stanley sat on the floor, leaning back against the side of the bed. He propped one arm up on the edge and rested his chin against it, watching his toddler snooze. Her face had started to relax finally, and he could finally chuckle at those chubby cheeks and the pacifier bobbing along.

No, wait, he should actually take it from her while he still could. She wasn’t supposed to be using it anymore. The last thing he needed to hear was someone clowning him over it and reminding him of how bad a parent he was. He already knew. It didn’t need repeating. He inched over and crept a hand out, giving the handle a gentle tug.

“Nu.” Stella shook her head in her sleep, then rolled over. He leaned back.

“Alright, then.” She’d have to spit it out, eventually. She was still little; nobody said she had to grow up _this_ fast.

She was content, ~~he hoped~~ , he’d just let her sleep.

≈

When Stella finally awoke, Stan had taken a nap of his own and woken back up. It was short—the nightmares had kicked in what felt like moments after he’d truly gotten somewhat comfortable—but he’d take what sleep he could get, when it came down to it.

“Hello, princess,” he cooed as he watched the child push herself into a sitting position, “sleep well? It sure looked like it.” She stared at him for a moment, then held her arms out, leaning towards him. He was more than happy to oblige her. “Hey.” He repeated, his grin evident in his voice. “How’re ya feelin’?” She chose to nestle down in his arms instead of responding. “Alright.” Stanley hummed. She’d babble again when she felt like it. But what to do in the meantime?

He heard a faint clatter. “Hey, I heard some noises downstairs. You wanna see what’s goin’ on?” he felt a nod. “Alright. We’ll go investigate. How ‘bout that? Maybe it’s your lil’ buddy.” He winced as soon as the words left his mouth. He was supposed to be weaning her away from that thing. _So much for that._

Father and child crept their way down the stairs, pausing at the rustling Stan heard in the kitchen, followed by a crash and a string of expletives. Stanley set Stella on her feet, his brows furrowed as he slipped into the kitchen. Ford was standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, staring down at a slew of pans and bowls scattered across the floor. Stan took a look around the kitchen. He wasn’t sure what he was aiming for.

He also wasn’t sure he wanted to ask.

He watched Stanford shove the pots and pans back into the cabinet, only to have them tumble back out moments later.

“ _For fuck’s sake—”_

“Uh.” Stanley interrupted, leaning against the doorjamb. “You look like you need some help. Or… Or a lot. I dunno.” He gave a shrug.

“I, no. No, everything is under control, I can assure you.”

“Alright cool.” Stanley spun around to leave, glancing down as he saw a little brown head traipse its way into the kitchen. His arm shot out and he leaned over, almost losing his balance as his hand pressed against the child’s tummy. “Uh, uh, uh. Where d’ya think you’re goin’?”

“Here.”

“Okay, fair enough,” he drawled, “but how about you don’t, huh? Let’s not and say we didn’t.” He patted the little tummy. Stella grinned up and stared up at him briefly before stepping to the side and continuing on her merry little way. “Or not. Okay.” He reluctantly followed the child into the kitchen, his nose wrinkling. “What’re you _doing_?”

“Making dinner?” Ford huffed as though it was obvious. The man forgot to buy groceries on a regular basis. Did he really expect Stan to believe this was a common occurrence for him? _Get real._

“Okay, dinner. Fine. I’ll rephrase the question. _What are you doing?”_

“Stanley, that’s—” Stanford cut himself off with a huff. “It’s _spaghetti.”_

Spaghetti. Stanley eyed the countertops, spotting unopened packs of ground beef and spaghetti. Those were reasonable. The opened cans of tomato puree were also reasonable.

What he found _unreasonable_ was the fact that the opened cans had been emptied into a pot and were boiling away, untouched by any other spaghetti component.

“Why?”

“Because people need food, Stanley.”

Stanley wrinkled his nose, shaking his head. “No, I mean _that._ Why’d you put the tomato in the pot with nothing in it?”

Ford looked at him like there was something new sprouting out of his head. “It’s a tomato-based sauce.”

“That doesn’t… that doesn’t mean you actually put it in _first.”_ He ran a hand down the side of his face. “Y’know what? Here.” He sidestepped Stella, placing a hand over the untouched onions. “Where’s your cutting board?”

“It…was burned a long time ago.”

“Oh my God. Okay. Fine. I’ll use a plate.” Stanford reached across Stanley into a cabinet overhead and pulled down a plate. Stan gave him a grunt of acknowledgment and cut the ends off while Ford watched. He sighed. “Crumble up the ground beef into a skillet, would ya?”

“Right. Of course.”

This was going to take a while.

≈

Stanley stared at the salvaged pot of pasta with a sigh. Halfway through, Stella had decided she would help, mostly by clinging to his leg and making it hard to move without knocking her over. He’d forcibly removed her from Ford’s leg at one point; the man was a disaster. He didn’t need Ford splattering piping hot substances across his child. He’d have to break his face—accident or not—and for that, his own leg was marginally better.

“Alright, gremlin. Time for you to actually sit in a chair.” He gave his leg a playful shake then lifted the child into his arms, earning himself a giggle before Ford startled him with a hand on his bicep.

“Wait.” His muscles tensed for a brief moment before he willed himself to relax. Ford needed to stop springing up on people. He was gonna run Stanley ragged that way, he swore it.

“Jesus, Ford, don’t make me drop ‘er.” He really _would_ have to break his face then.

“Sorry.” Stanford leaned and hovered over Stanley’s shoulder—to Stan’s discomfort—to reach the child’s level, looking her in the eye. “Now, Miss Pines, I have an apology for you.” _What_? Stanley craned his neck to watch the man sigh. “I shouldn’t have yelled at your father, and I certainly shouldn’t have done so right in front of you. That wasn’t nice of me at all. Will you forgive me?”

Stanley froze, wrapping his arms tighter around the child. What was this? Was this happening? There was a catch. There had to be. Ford must’ve been enjoying taking the piss out of him.

This was the carrot, and Stanley needed to know when the stick was coming. He worked at his jaw, trying to loosen the tension quickly building.

Stanley’s child leaned back to peer at him, then blinked. So she was as confused as he was. Good.

Stanford seemed to be waiting for an actual answer. Stella just stuck her hand in her mouth.

“Finger outta your mouth, honey.” He should probably wash her hands.

Her eyes darted between Stanley and Stanford for a moment before she complied. “’Kay.” She offered the damp little hand, followed by the other, out to Ford, who, at a loss, put his hands out to take her.

“And so the princess allows herself to be held.” Stanley mumbled, stifling a snort at Ford’s lost expression. He was lost, too, if he was honest with himself. Ford had apologized to Stella, actually gotten down on her level and _apologized_. Actually _apologized._ Never would he have expected that from the man. He wouldn’t have expected that from anyone, for that matter. People didn’t like Stanley. He’d found the easiest way for others to show that was through showing disdain for his child by extension of him.

This stretch of silence was too uncomfortable to let continue. “Alright, princess, let’s set you down.” He mumbled, giving a slight nod of satisfaction as his words lit a fire under Ford. The man stalked to the table, slower than Stan himself thought necessary, and stood Stella in a chair with what seemed like unnecessary caution. Stella, for her part, seemed put-out to be standing in furniture and slid down onto her knees, leaning against the edge of the table. “That’s better.” Stanley cooed.

His brow furrowed again as he watched Stanford fumble to grab plates and cutlery all at the same time. “Hey, we only need two plates. Or bowls. A plate and a bowl. Or a bowl and whatever you want.”

Ford eyed him. “Stanley, there’s three of us.”

“I _am_ aware, thanks.”

“Three people. Three sets of flatware.”

“Me ‘n Mini-me can share.”

“Nonsense, there’s plenty. You don’t have to—”

“Ford. Look at her.” They both turned. She was still perched on the edge of the chair, looking confused. “Sit back, sweetie. Don’t want you to fall.” Stan turned back towards the other man. “But yeah, look at her. She’s big as a fart,” Ford looked taken aback at that, “she eats like a lil’ baby bird. She doesn’t eat a full _anything_. I’ll have to finish it, or it’ll go to waste. Just let ‘er eat off my plate. It’s fine.”

Stanford pursed his lips. “…If you insist.”

“It’s less cleanup, too.”

“You may have a point.” The man’s face told his lie. Stanley ignored it in favor of collecting his child.

“Alright, missy. Time to wash your hands.” He carried her over to the sink and propped her up on the edge of the counter. “Not… you have tiny hands, you don’t need that much soap.”

“Bubbles are important, Daddy.”

“Oh. Bubbles are important.” He drawled. “My bad.” He heard Ford snickering off to the side. Water ran down Stella’s elbows and dripped on the both of them. “Nice.” It was fine. It’d dry soon enough.

While he micromanaged his daughter’s soap usage, Ford had taken it upon himself to fill their plates and set them at the table. He carried the slippery girl back to the table and sat down across from Stanford, settling her in his lap. He eased the bowl towards the center of the table before Stella could flip its contents across them both.

This was bound to be a painfully awkward evening.

≈

Children were _messy._

Stanford wasn’t sure how something so small could make such a contained disaster and smile about it the entire time. Most baffling was that he had been watching the entire time, and in no moment could he pinpoint the exact moments in which the mess appeared. It was as though it just… materialized.

“Stella, sweetie?” Stanley hummed to the child, who turned her tomato-smeared face upwards. “You know you’re cute, right?”

“Yeah?”

“You are _so_ cute, but you’re making _such_ a big mess.”

“Okay?” Stanford couldn’t help the snort that escaped him and covered his mouth with his hand as he tried to contain himself. He could all but hear the ‘ _And? What’s your point?’_ left unsaid as she reached for Stanley’s fork.

“Kiddo. I’m gonna give it to you, can you wait until I actually get it on the fork for you first?”

“But I wanna do it!”

Stanley’s shoulders dropped. “Here.” He offered the fork. She immediately dropped its contents into both of their laps. Perhaps spaghetti hadn’t been the best idea, Ford mused as Stan let his head loll back. “Oh my God.” He sighed. Stella picked the pasta up with her fingers and shoved it into her mouth, unbothered. “Stella, can I at least _help_ you with it, sweetie?”

“No, I wanna do it.”

“Stella, you’re making a huge mess all over the place. You need help. You can either let me help you, or I can do it for you, but you _cannot_ do it by yourself.” The little girl scowled, turning her stare towards Ford. ‘ _You hear this shit?’_ Her unreasonable look of indignation was _priceless._

He bit back another chuckle and settled for a raised brow. “It _is_ quite the mess.”

“See? People don’t like it when you make a big mess out of all of their stuff.” Stella folded her arms. “So is that a yes?”

“…Okay.”

“Perfect.”

The remaining meal passed with less fanfare, and Ford watched Stanley as he coaxed his child into letting him feed her with minimal fuss. Ford hesitated for a moment before opening his mouth. “Loath though I am to beat a dead horse, my laundry offer still stands. I’ll even throw in mine.” He gestured to the orange-toned splatters across his own front, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “I think I might have a smaller shirt that might suit her in the meantime.” He inclined his head towards Stella, still wearing the blood-stained shirt he’d leant Stanley the day before.

Stanley’s face soured and his jaw tightened, ropy muscles rolling underneath the mottled skin. “Yeah. Sure. Okay, fine.” He handed the child the fork. When she leaned back against him, apparently sated, Stanley grabbed a fistful of paper towels and wiped down her hands and the tabletop before standing. He placed her in the chair before grabbing the bowl, then Ford’s, and plunking them both into the sink. Stanford twisted in his chair as Stan began running the water.

“What are you doing?”

“Relax, I got it. It’ll just be a second. Where’re your containers?”

“The…The cabinet to your left, I believe. Stanley, you don’t have to—”

“I gotta get this mess up. It’ll take ten minutes, tops.”

“What?”

True to his word, Stanley was finished in roughly ten minutes. He’d even wiped the stove down, which Ford had to admit wouldn’t have occurred to him. How did he work so quickly? He watched him give the table another quick wipe and then grabbed Stella, holding her at arm’s length as he sped up the stairs. He could hear the child whine. “Yeah, yeah. It’s bathtime. You got no one to blame but yourself on this one, babypants.” Moments later, Ford heard the rush of water surging through the pipes.

He stared at the clean table.

What a remarkably fast exit. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Of course he wouldn’t want to stay, not after that. It was quite literally the same argument that had caused them so much trouble hours earlier. Plus, the child _was_ absolutely filthy. He needed to find the shirt he’d promised.

With a sigh, Stanford pushed back his chair and stood, letting his feet carry him towards his room while the sounds of muffled splashes, song, and giggles trickled down. The sound of such honest _normalcy_ was jarring. Stella’s existence was jarring, if he was honest with himself.

When Stan had been driven off at seventeen and the informercials had stopped airing late at night, it was easy to imagine that he was off somewhere in Atlantic City or Las Vegas, partying to his heart’s content. That image had been shattered once Ford had begun to worry with upkeep on the Stanleymobile in the years Stan had been lost. The wear and tear and obvious signs that Stanley had been living out of that car spoke of a life far different from what he’d originally assumed.

When Stan had driven off again a few years prior, Ford had hoped down to the pit of his stomach that Stanley would have been able to turn things around for himself. If he could survive the other side, apparently unscathed, then certainly he could prosper with ease with what experience he surely must have gained. One look at him on his doorstep three nights ago had proven that a lie, and the child upstairs had been the laughter and slap in the face to add insult to injury.

Stella was another reality check for Stanford, that yes, his brother was out there, actually interacting with people, and having to work his way through tight situations. Handling a small child in the best of situations was daunting as it was. Doing it with no means must have certainly been unbearable. _How does one raise an infant from the backseat of a broken-down car?_ It wasn’t a question he could hope to earn the right to ask.

Ford found himself staring down at his dresser, numbed. His brother was living out of a car ~~again~~. There was a _baby_ living out of his brother’s car. ~~What had Stanley done in his years without the Stanleymobile?~~

He had to fix it. There were a number of things Stanford had to make right, but this one was absolutely _imperative._ He pulled open a drawer and began rifling through the back, pulling out a shirt for Stanley. He _would_ fix this. He didn’t know how, but he’d come up with a way. He didn’t want his niece to have to experience the same things Stanley had.

He didn’t want _Stanley_ to have to experience the things Stanley had.

For all his eloquence, Stanford wasn’t as good with words as he’d hoped when it came to people. Things always seemed to end in a fight or ruffled feathers, at the very least. ~~It was a wonder Fiddleford had put up with it all for as long as he had.~~ He’d just have to show them both the emotions he couldn’t properly express. Their Ma, silver-tongued though she was, had always been the same way with them growing up. Her words never carried as much weight as her actions did. She had even gone out of her way to make them both a birthday cake each every year, even on years they had decided on the same flavor. He smiled at the thought.

He might not have been able to bake a cake, but he would do his damnedest to get his point across.

He just had to find this stupid shirt first.

≈

Stanford hustled his way upstairs, a shirt tossed over either shoulder. The bathtime noises had quieted, and from the cracked door he could see the light was off. He must’ve taken longer than he’d expected to collect the garments. He continued on to his guest room, pleased to hear the faint shuffling from inside the room. He sidled up to the doorway, one hand pressed against the frame. He watched a slight frown cross Stanley’s face as he squeezed a damp shirt, wiping the water across the lounge pants he’d changed into. _So I made good timing. Good._

His brother turned slightly as he bunched the damp shirt up, ready to pull it over his head. Ford moved his hand to tap on the doorframe, but froze. His eye caught the outline of the sigil he’d burned into Stan’s shoulder and he winced at the dark bluish, purpled scar tissue. _Fuck_. Ford had never gotten the chance to see the aftermath of his handiwork; Stanley had been so closed-off and silent when he’d returned, and had seemingly done his best to keep as far away from Stanford as possible until he’d driven off into the night without so much as a by-your-leave.

The skin was shiny, not unusual for scar tissue, and seemed to dip inwards rather than keloid, forming dips and valleys where the hot metal had seared through his skin and into his actual flesh. The skin around it puckered more than stretched as it pulled taut with his movements. And to think he could still fight, with his shoulder like this. _Maybe there was a reason he was taking falls and throwing fights._

 _He_ had done that to his brother. Just looking at it brought back the acrid smell of Stanley’s charred skin and the fat sizzling underneath it, mixing with the sharp bite of the molten polyester of his jacket. He had to be able to _feel_ that. Was the smell lodged high in the back of Stanley's sinuses as well? He could almost _see_ the melting fabric darken and dissolve and crawl away from the blinding heat, just to cling to Stan's unaffected skin to scald him further. _That jacket had been too light for winter._ The skin must have cracked and wept for Stanley, like Ford had wept for him on the other side. _Fat lot of good that did._ Had it bled? Or had the heat cauterized the wound immediately? Stanford had used that brand to engrave symbols into solid steel. There was no way the damage done could have healed without complications. It was so close to his spinal cord, to top it all off. It was a wonder his brother was still alive.

Stanford’s eyes dropped to the floor, but fell short. Another large scar marred his brother’s body. An angry, pink puckered gash ran diagonally from his back to the tip of his right hip. Ford’s mind was quick to offer the word _nephrectomy,_ and he made a concerted effort to ignore it. No, this scar was roughly-hewn and there were a number of ways Stan could have gotten himself another scar. He could’ve tried some reckless stunt on a motorcycle, or been in a freak hiking accident, _or a knife fight,_ or, or, _or_ —

Stanley rotated his body slightly, moving the majority of the scar out of Ford’s line of vision. He must’ve noticed his presence. With a concerted effort, Stanford straightened his body and face as Stanley tugged the shirt down fully, turning to face him.

“I come bearing shirts.” He held the offending garments up as a lame offering. Stanley’s drawn, contemptuous face did not change. He let his arms drop.

“…Right. Thanks.” Stanley mumbled. Stanford stepped into the room in his best attempt at looking casual, giving a quick glance towards the bundled lump on the bed.

“Is she asleep?” his voice dropped to a near whisper.

“Yeah.” Stanley turned his head to stare at his little lump and remained silent for a moment, a faint smile forming. “Started fallin’ asleep halfway through her bath.”

Ford didn’t hold back his smile. “I… This one is smaller, of course, I’d imagine it fits better than an adult man’s shirt would. I received it by accident and just…never got rid of it.” He rambled away, though it did nothing for the tremble in his hands or the bitter taste of guilt corroding his tongue. He lifted the larger shirt. “Also, this one isn’t wet.” _Damnit. Would it kill you to keep your mouth shut? Just once?_

Stanley eyed the shirt, then Stanford. “Aaalright, then. Thanks.” He mumbled the word, almost as an afterthought as he stretched a reluctant hand towards the proffered shirts.

Once taken, Stanford took a step back, offering his brother a weak smile. It was painfully clear that Stanley wanted him out of the room, and for once, Stanford felt the same. “I’ll just… let you two sleep now.” He feigned nonchalance as he inched his way out of the threshold. _Oh, Fuck._ “Wait.” He doubled back to peer into the doorway, wincing slightly. “I’m about to… gather up my own belongings to throw in the washer, if you’d like to add yours in?”

“Okay, Ford. Sure. Thanks.” Stanley mumbled, no heat behind the edge to his words. He just sounded _exhausted._ And whose fault was that today? “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Stanford Pines dragged himself down the stairs—vindicated, he supposed—though feeling a great deal emptier than he had in quite some time for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This past month has been: one week and a half off of work, followed by a 4-day weekend, then ANOTHER 4-day weekend, this week was be a full week, and then we get ANOTHER long weekend on top of that. And another.  
> You'd think that would be a good excuse for getting MORE updates than normal, but uh, every time I sat down to work it turned into "Hey, you wanna go to ___?" and I am a sucker for pretending to be an extrovert, so... Yeah.  
> 


	9. I Never Really Knew (What to Do)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hoped it would be a walk in the park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _And I'm a goddamn fool, but then again so are you_  
>  _And the lion's roar, the lion's roar_  
>  _Has me seeking out and searching for you_  
>  _And I never really knew what to do_  
>  _The Lion’s Roar—_ First Aid Kit

The morning was quiet.

Stanford crouched down to sit on the porch and watched the rimy dew glitter across the glass. His fingers tapped a lazy rhythm against his steaming mug. The abominable leprecorn was still present and was asleep on the porch, off to the side, but Ford chose to ignore it. _Let sleeping dogs lie._ He wished it were something as plain as a stupid dog. He and Stanley had always wanted a dog, growing up. There hadn’t been any room for pets in their small apartment. _Pa would’ve said no, regardless._ He hunkered down, letting his first two fingers tap a lazy rhythm against his mug. Yesterday had been a bust.

He refused to dwell on it.

But those _scars._ His mind kept lingering on those _scars._ They were etched into his mind, much like they were into Stan’s skin. He’d never be able to pick them away.

Neither of them would.

Ford heaved a heavy sigh as his fingers tapped a lazy rhythm against his mug. He’d apologized, on pain of a child’s tears, but he knew that wasn’t enough. ~~He just didn’t know what else to do.~~ He’d folded his brother’s clothing, sparse though they were, along with his niece’s belongings. She had more than Stanley, which gave him _some_ comfort, but without the blanket Stan so often wrapped her in, the entirety hardly filled a diaper bag. Stanley had shoved their belongings into the worn, multicolored bag and dumped it all into the washer barrel before Ford could get a good look at anything. He’d done that on purpose, and Stanford knew it. Ford had stared at the caricature of a smiling lion on the bottom of the bag while it was upended. The baby giraffes and bears and elephants dancing around the big cat came in as a close second for visual interest.

His mouth contorted up and to the side in a pucker while his eyebrows furrowed. It had taken him a while to fold the child’s clothes. The tags said the majority were sized for a two-year-old. He wasn’t sure if he should have found that concerning. Who knew how fiddly such small garments could be? A small smile tickled the corner of his mouth. He knew his niece was tiny, but her shirts were downright miniscule. They looked like an oversized doll’s clothes. Is that why Ma used to call them and any child she came across “little dolls?” Stanford could see the similarities. He’d left her tiny socks in a pile. Half of them seemed to be missing mates, and socks were fiddly enough as they were.

He’d made a child cry yesterday.

It wasn’t as though he’d done it all by himself; Stanley certainly hadn’t helped the situation.

He couldn’t blame this all on Stanley. In no way was that reasonable. The man couldn’t fight himself, and as such, he’d done his part to make the little girl cry. Stanford let a hand slip away from his mug to rub at his face, his fingers lingering across his stubble. She’d forgiven him, though. Just like that, she’d said “okay” and had forgiven him. How had it been so simple? Clearly the child didn’t know any better. Stanford swore to himself not to take her kindness for granted, however long it lasted.

Ford had fought with his brother. Again. He’d fought with him and _hurt_ him and _burned him_ and fought with him _again._

He’d never learn.

He set the mug down, careful not to disturb the sleeping beast. It was too early for bagpipe music. That damned thing was infuriating and bizarre, even by his standards, but the thought of running it off was beginning to form a twinge of guilt in the pit of his stomach. He’d try moving it in its sleep. That was much more subtle.

Twenty minutes and a full sweat later, the leprecorn dozed near the treeline with an old towel draped across its back to ward off the morning chill. Ford wasn’t a _complete_ animal. By the time Stanley finally came down the stairs with his bleary-eyed child on his hip, the stupid creature had gone from quietly sleeping to snoring with the intensity of two grown men. He was glad he’d moved it.

Stanley gave the girl on his hip a slight bounce as she rubbed her eye. “Can you say g’morning, sweetie?” he earned a whine for his troubles. “I guess not.” Stella buried her head against his collarbone. “Alright. I guess we’re gonna be cranky this mornin’.”

Ford squinted. “Actually, no, I think she’s grinning at me?”

“Figures.”

Stanford straightened back up. “I, uh. I folded the both of your clothes and placed them back in your bag. Except for the socks. They’re… They’re in the bag, though. Just not folded.” He watched Stan’s jaw tighten.

“You _what?_ ”

 _Oh, here we go._ “I folded your laundry, Stanley. I hope that’s not too concerning.” He tried to keep the drawl out of his voice.

Stanley was silent for a moment and shifted from foot to foot. “But _why?_ ”

“ ‘Why?’ Why not? It wouldn’t make sense for me to separate mine out and just leave your belongings in a pile.”

Stanley didn’t seem mollified. “I was gonna do it, Ford—”

“And now you don’t have to. It isn’t as though I was doing anything productive at the time—”

“Tch.”

Ford chose to ignore that. “Anyway, I placed it all back in your, uh, diaper bag. It’s all upstairs, near your door.” He grumbled. Stanley made a noise, deep in the back of his throat. Stanford scowled before his attention shifted to the way Stella wiggled in his brother’s arms, her eyes darting back and forth between two matching frowns. _Stop it._ The last thing anyone needed was a repeat of the previous day’s excitement. He reached up to grab her tiny foot, giving it a gentle squeeze. Six little toes wiggled against his palm. “Good morning, Stella.” He forced a brighter tone. A tense little moment passed before she gave him a small smile. _There it is._ His own smile widened in earnest. His eyes flickered back to Stanley. “There’s… There’s still coffee, if you’d like.”

Stanley nodded, the edge wearing off of his scowl. “…Thanks.”

“I want some.”

Stanford cocked an eyebrow. “My dear, I don’t know if that’s—”

“We’ll get you some, too, sweetie. Don’t worry.” Stanley kissed her crown.

“But—”

“We’ll get you some.” He repeated, sending Ford an even glare. _Damn. Well, fine, then._ “Hey, how’s about after you finish your _coffee,_ we find somethin’ fun for you to do?” Stanley hummed into the child’s hair, swaying her from side to side as he stared off, anywhere but at Ford himself. Ford’s face fell. Stan was still eager to avoid him. Of course he was. He’d made his daughter cry. Who wouldn’t want to avoid that?

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” Stella began to chant, letting her little legs flail against Stanley’s back and stomach.

“Ow! Ow, ow, hey, ey, ey! Jesus, sweetie, don’t kick a man while he’s down!” Stan grumbled with a wince carting her off towards the kitchen. Despite himself, Ford couldn’t mask his chuckle. He inched behind Stanley into the kitchen, trying to hide his look of disappointment. Stanley busied himself with settling Stella into a chair before reaching for two mugs. Ford inched closer and grabbed the coffee pot, eyeing it with unease. Why was he giving a small child coffee? Didn’t that stunt growth?

He leaned in. “Stanley, isn’t that bad for—”

“Hush, Ford. Where’s your milk?”

Ford was silent as he trudged towards the refrigerator, returning with a can of evaporated milk and the gallon jug for good measure. Stanley filled one mug with sweet milk and splashed a bit of coffee in, just enough to discolor the milk.

“Baby coffee.” He mumbled.

“Oh.” _Oh._ It was a means of placating her. He should’ve known. Ford watched Stanley hand Stella her mug before fixing his own. He shuffled back over to the child and used his free arm to scoop the girl up and sit down, placing her in his lap in one practiced movement. He brought the warm mug to his lips and glanced down to watch Stella fumble with both hands around her own. The broad hand around her middle came up to steady hers, guiding the milk as she lifted it. Ford watched him help her set it down.

“There we go. Like it?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad.”

Stanford pressed a hip against the counter as he leaned back to watch the two sip from their respective mugs, though _sip_ may not have been the best word to describe it. Stan nursed his mug, while Stella had hers upturned in both hands, and chugged it dry. She slammed it back onto the table with the weak force only a child could take pride in. Stanley looked down at her with eyebrows raised, his hand creeping away from his mouth.

“Okay. I’d like to think I have no idea where you got that from, but that’s probably considered lying to us both.” Neither Stella nor her milk moustache seemed to understand.

“What?”

“Nothin’, sweetie.” Stan pressed another kiss to the top of her head.

Baby coffee sufficiently drained, Stella switched to playing with her father’s fingers as he balanced her on his leg. He gave her tummy the occasional pat as she wiggled, earning himself a small coo here and there as he gave his leg a lazy, rhythmic bounce. Stella leaned forward to reach for his mug. He snatched it out of reach.

“No, sweetie. This is grownup coffee. It’s hot, see?” He eased the mug down for her to give it a gentle prod. “We might burn ourselves, so let’s not, okay?”

Stella squinted at the offending mug. “Ow.”

“Hurt your finger?”

“No.”

Stanley kissed the little digit anyway. Ford found himself smiling. Stanley nudged both mugs out of her reach and placed both hands across her stomach, patting lightly as she giggled. “Tummy bongos. Tum-my. Bon-gos.” He began to chant, before ducking his head to blow a raspberry against her cheek. Ford winced at the shriek the child unleashed and watched as a pudgy little hand shoved at Stanley’s face. She dissolved into peals of laughter and leaned against his chest with a _whump._ “…Ow. That had to hurt. That hurt _me.”_ Stella didn’t look too concerned. It took her a moment to calm back down once Stanley straightened back up.

Ford opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut. He was at a loss. Again. He pursed his lips for a moment. “Stella?”

“Yes?”

A smile crept back to his face. “What’s your favorite game?”

She threw her little hands in the air. “All the games!”

Ford let his eyebrows shoot upwards. “All of them?”

“Yeah!”

“Even…” he paused to think for a moment. What had he and Stanley played as children? “Even pick-up-sticks?”

“Yeah!” she chirped. “I like sticks.”

“That’s not the same, sweetie, but I’m glad you like pickin’ up sticks.” Stanley chuckled and pressed another kiss to the child’s crown. She looked put-out.

“Is too! You pick up sticks ‘n you wave ‘em ‘n the best stick is the winner ‘cause it’s the best one.”

“Sounds concernin’.”

Stella twisted to frown at her father. “You find sticks ‘n you pick them up ‘n then you win.”

“Ohhh. _That’s_ right, that’s how you win. Silly me went ‘n forgot how to play. Think you can forgive me?”

She squinted up at him for a long moment. “Yeah.”

“Thank you. You’re too kind.”

“Yeah.” Stanford lost his composure and doubled forward, choking on his own saliva.

“You okay? You’re not s’posed t’ make that noise.” She cautioned, and made his laughter come out as a hard wheeze.

“He’s fine, sweetie, he’s just laughin’.”

“Why?”

“He thinks you’re funny.”

“But I _am_ funny.”

“You really are, though.” Stan lifted the child and turned her to face him, placing a kiss on the bridge of her nose. She grabbed his face. “Stella, _ow!”_

“Sorry! Sorry, Daddy!”

“S’alright, honey. We gotta be careful messin’ with people’s faces, though, okay?”

“Okay.” She pouted.

“You’re not in trouble, sweetie. Just… Just be careful, okay? You ‘n those lil’ razor-sharp nails.” She stared at him for a moment longer before she stuck her arm out to reach for him. He pulled the child in for a hug, his smile parting his face. The little girl threw her stubby little arms around Stanley's neck. “Oh, sweetie pie…” Stanley cooed.

She wiggled to place a quick peck against the cheek she scratched. “Better.”

“Mmm hmm. Much better.” Stanley agreed, swallowing the hoarseness out of his voice. The room was silent for a moment. “I love you, Stella.” He mumbled into her hair. Ford blinked. Four little words had thrown him for a complete loop. Though they weren’t directed at him, Ford couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard that phrase. It must have been years.

No, that wasn’t true. He’d spoken to Ma nearly a week ago. He’d used it then.

Twice in however many years most likely fell well into the _pathetic_ category.

He watched the child smash her cheek against her father’s bruised, stubbled one. “I love me, too.” She cooed.

Stanley turned his head to get a good look at her and let out a bark of laughter. Stanford himself wasn’t far behind. He watched as Stan rocked her from side to side and patted her small back as she draped herself over his shoulder. This was absolutely Stan’s child, no doubt about it.

“Oh, sweetie.” Stanley hummed. “You are somethin’ else, you know that?” She stuck a finger in her mouth as response. She certainly had moxie; it was easy for Ford to admit. “You lil’ gremlin.” Warmth colored Stanley’s tone. Ford wondered when he’d ever heard such affection in his brother’s voice. Certainly not when they were young ~~and foolish~~ and still thick as thieves. That tone of voice was better reserved for their ma some thirty-odd years ago.

He furrowed his brow. Ma didn’t know about Stanley’s child. She had a granddaughter she didn’t know existed. He himself had a niece he hadn’t known existed until three days prior. Stanley had planned on never having contact with his family ever again, and the thought sent pulses of dread trickling down Ford’s neck. He had to open his mouth.

“And what’s your favorite thing?”

She lifted her head an inch. “Ever?”

“Your favorite thing ever? Well, I don’t see why not.”

She wrinkled her little face in thought. “Daddy! Daddy’s the bestest thing!” she beamed.

Stanford’s eyes shot up. This child was going to break his heart, and Stanley’s, too, if the way his battered arms tightened around her and his face sank into her fuzzy head were any indication. He watched Stanley rock his baby, though it seemed like an excuse to hide the way his shoulders trembled and shook. Stella looked a bit put-out and squirmed in his tight grip, twisting her body so that she faced Ford instead of her possibly crying father. Ford must have been giving her an odd look, judging from the confused look she shot up at him.

“Hi.”

“Hello, sweetling.” He found himself murmuring back. Stanley coughed behind her. “It appears you…surprised your father with your favorite thing. Quite thoroughly.” He amended.

“Okay.” She busied herself with playing with her fingers. Ford watched her tiny little joints articulate. Is that what others saw when he moved? He couldn’t bring himself to look away. It baffled him. How small they were, and yet they flexed and straightened so well. It bordered on surreal. Why was he so fascinated by what he saw past the end of his own nose? He’d seen six digits every day of his life. What made her smaller hands so intriguing?

The child continued to wiggle her little fingers at herself. The twelve little digits were in need of a wipe-down. Surely Stanley would notice, he hoped sooner rather than later. She really was sticky, and Stanford wasn’t even sure when the stickiness had occurred.

She started to babble a little song of her own making. “Now you’re just tryin’ t’be cute.” Stan grumbled, his voice hoarse and gravelly. “It’s workin’.” Indeed it was. Stella turned her head to grin up at him.

“I take it she does that a lot?”

Stanley looked down. “What, the baby songs?” he shrugged. “Whenever she feels like it. It’s usually just noises.” Stan was silent for a moment while Stella continued. “Like that.”

The child’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men while she babbled her tune. She let out another shriek of a giggle as the hand across her tummy switched from patting to tickling for a brief moment. It took a while for the residual giggles to die down.

Ford swallowed. “I… So, did you sleep well?” His lips pursed together as Stanley sent him a slight frown.

“Yeah. Slept fine.” Stan mumbled. Ford wasn’t so convinced.

“…Right. You don’t… You don’t need any more blankets or anything, do you? Pillows?” Ford winced at the words even as they left his mouth. Stanley sighed.

“No, Ford, we’re good. Really.”

Ford nodded. “Okay.” There was a lull.

“Thanks, though.”

“It’s certainly not a problem.” Ford watched as Stella pressed her lips together to make another little noise, then began to wiggle in Stan’s grip. _Cute._ “What about...” he trailed off. “What about—”

“It’s fine, Ford. Don’t worry about it.” Stan grumbled, shifting the wiggling toddler. He bounced his knee, which seemed to appease her for a few moments while he scowled somewhere past Stanford’s head.

 _And there she goes._ Ford hummed to himself as she wiggled her way out of Stanley’s lap and to her feet. She gave his leg a quick pat before toddling off. Ford bit back a chuckle. Stan didn’t seem bothered by it. He watched the man’s countenance unfurl, choosing to remain still himself until Stanley’s gaze settled on him.

“Stan, I—” He cut himself off with a huff, dragging a hand down the length of his face. “I find myself... _compelled_ to apologize for my behavior yesterday.” Stanley sighed. Did he just roll his eyes? _Oh, honestly, the nerve of him._ “Our fighting was highly inappropriate, innocent company notwithstanding.” His brother let out another huff, the line of his body elongating only to crumple and collapse back down like an accordion with the accompanying, tuneless wheeze.

“Ford’ we’ve been in one prolong fight for, what? Twenty? Thirty years? Fightin’ might as well be the baseline standard at this point.”

Ford hated that he found himself agreeing. “It _shouldn’t_ be the standard, though.”

“There’s a lotta stuff that shouldn’t be, but it is.” Stan shrugged.

“That’s not… That’s a… less-than-optimistic mindset to hold.”

“A realistic one, though.”

Ford let out a long sigh. “Stanley. Just… Just let me apologize, okay?”

The man seemed uncomfortable with the mere concept. “What’s the point?” Stanley sent him a stare so even it unnerved Stanford. He deflated.

“The point is, just because this is the way things _have_ been doesn’t mean it should _remain_ that way.” Stanley shrugged. It was a start, maybe. That was better than nothing, Ford supposed. There had to be a way to alleviate the sheer unease that hung heavy between them like an illness. The silence stretched between them, long and disjoining. The longer he held it, the further away conversation slipped from his reach. Stanford opened his mouth with a gasp of air, words tumbling out. “Are you still planning on leaving? Because—It’s not that I _want_ you to leave, in fact, I’d like quite the opposite—I mean—I just… You should stay.”

Stanley squinted as he sorted through the jumble of words. He huffed. “Fuck’s sake, Stanford.” He grumbled. “You gotta… You gotta let go of that idea.”

That _hurt._

“I’ve been in your hair plenty long as it is.”

“You’ve been here for two days.”

“I know. I’ve been counting, too.”

“That’s not… That’s not what I meant in the slightest.”

“I still got a point.” Stan grumbled.

Like hell he did.

“Stan, I’m _asking_ you to stay. Literally asking. Look. Look at me asking, because this is a request.” Ford ran a hand through his hair, making the loopy curls stand on end. “This is me, requesting the honor of your presence, here, _now,_ and with no strings attached. Is that acceptable?” The shuffling scowl the man sent him before hiding his face behind his neglected coffee—eyes pointedly elsewhere—screamed _hell no,_ but Ford had no qualms pushing the subject. “Well?”

“Damnit, Ford.” The stiff silence range in Stanford’s ears. “You can’t… I can’t just answer that.” The answer _should_ have been a plain _yes_ , as simple as that.

But when had anything been simple between the two of them?

Ford pressed his lips together in a firm line. Was it worth it just to rile Stanley up again? “You’ve got to stay _somewhere._ ” Apparently it was. The glare Stanley sent him was venomous.

“That is _not_ your problem to worry about, _Ford._ I can handle it myself.”

“I mean, Stella should be starting school soon, should she not? And—”

“What the _fuck_ , Ford? That’s—and _no,_ since you’re asking, she doesn’t start school ‘til she’s _five._ I already _told_ you she’s too young for school.” His snarl was impressive, Ford had to admit. “I’ll… It’s _not_ your problem to worry about.” Stan looked like he wanted to say something, but instead propped his elbow on the table and pressed his face into his palm, his spare hand stretching out to drift through the air beside him. His hand stilled, then swiped through the empty space once more before he twisted in his chair. “ _Where’s Stella?”_ the chair scraped backwards along the kitchen floor, nearly tipping over in Stanley’s haste.

Had he truly not noticed? “She toddled off a few minutes ago.”

“ _And you saw her?_ ‘N you didn’t _say_ anything?” Ford pushed out his own chair. When he put it _that_ way, he made it soundas though he’d idly watched as the little girl wandered into a den of wolves. He’d cleared away every potentially dangerous experiment and tucked them all out of reach.

“Oh, _honestly,_ Stanley. You make it sound as though she didn’t just go off to color.”

Stanley huffed. “Ford, she’s _three._ She’s a _baby_. They like gettin’ into stuff. It’s one of the _main things they’re good at_.” Ford’s mouth puckered and he drew it off to the side. _Well, if you put it_ that _way…_ No. It still wasn’t an issue. The worst she could do was scribble across his rough drafts.

“Stanley, I’m sure its _fine.”_

She wasn’t in the living room.

Ford had to admit he might have been wrong. He might’ve even admitted it out loud, if Stanley hadn’t been on the verge of hysteria, poised to crawl underneath the worktable to check for his child.

“Stanley. She couldn’t have gone outside. She has to be in the house.” She couldn’t open doors. Could she open doors? Ford doubted it. She hadn’t managed the task yesterday.

Stanley bumped his head on the table edge on his way up. “Yeah, that doesn’t make me feel any better, just so you know.” _Well, damn._ His voice was stiff was he brushed past Stanford. Ford remained still for a moment before trailing his brother. Stanley had darted into his storage room, which only fed his frenzy before he took the stairs two at a time. Ford lagged behind him and watched the line of Stanley’s shoulders pull taut, then hunch forward. “Stella?” he drawled, coiled like a spring.

“Yeah?” Stanley bolted towards the little voice, muffled slightly by running water.

“Sweetie, what’re you—” he slumped against the doorframe. “Oh, _sweetie.”_

“What?” Her tone was too flat to be an actual question. Stan ran a hand across his face.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

 _“What?”_ It was Ford’s turn to ask. He sidled his way behind Stanley and peered over his shoulder. “Oh.” That was _quite_ the mess. Stella had lowered the toilet lid and climbed on top to reach the sink. She had to strain and stretch to reach the faucet while soapsuds and water dripped down her elbows across her borrowed shirt and pooled on the floor. _At least her laundry’s done._ Her front was completely soaked.

“Oh, _Stella.”_ Stanley repeated. Ford didn’t have to see his face to know that his brother was already exhausted. His wavering voice said enough. He inched his way into the bathroom, careful to avoid the larger puddles where possible, and sat the little girl on the toilet lid. He crouched down in front of her.

“Sweetie pie, we can’t just go ’n make a big mess in someone’s house. They’ll get mad ’n then we have t’ leave. It’s not nice, okay? How did you even get upstairs?”

“I know how to do it!” she protested.

“Don’t go up stairs by yourself, sweetie. You could fall ‘n hurt yourself, okay?” Stan moved to scoop her into his arms and sighed into her hair. “Guess I shoulda been watching’ you, huh?” He finally turned towards Stanford, his body tense and eyes withdrawn. He never quite met Ford’s eye. “I’ll be right back to get this up. I just… Just let me put her down ‘n get her settled, okay? I’ll be right back.” He patted the child’s back as he slipped past Ford, who strained to hear him mumble under his breath. “Let’s get you outta your uncle’s hair ‘n lay low for a while, I guess. I’ll find you a park or somethin’. Let you run off that energy you clearly got built up.”

Stanford frowned as he watched his brother and his soggy child make their retreat. It was just water. Was he really that worked up by a few puddles? Ford was certain he’d made a similar mess while shaving some mornings. Did Stanley truly expect him to be that upset over such an inconsequential accident? Ford swallowed. Of course he did. Stan had been sent away from home over what he called an accident. Of course he expected it to be a recurring thing.

But to kick him out over the actions of a child? _He had been a child as well._

It was different. They were seventeen then. Stella was _three_. Three was a far cry away from knowing any better. She’d just splashed water. She hadn’t broken anything.

 _Even if she had, it would have been an accident._ She hadn’t meant to do anything. Ford doubted the thought would have even occurred to her.

Had it even occurred to Stanley?

Ford sighed and glanced around, grabbing a towel to drop over a puddle. Stanley had been kicked out over what he swore was an accident before; Ford wouldn’t be surprised if he expected the same now. _He mentioned taking her to lie low. Of course that’s what he expects._ “Damnit.” The thought sent a flush of shame across Stanford’s face as he shoved the towel around with the toe of his shoe. There was no way he could send Stanley away over something so trivial, and the realization that his brother thought that he might _hurt._ It hurt more than he’d care to admit, even to himself.

What a mess they’d made of things.

 _Not Stella, though._ This was just a baby mess. Ford continued to drag the towel along the floor. He’d fix it up. He and Stanley both would. They had to.

Stanley slunk back to the bathroom, face downcast, and froze in front of Ford. “Stanford, what the fuck? You didn’t have to—I was gonna—I was gonna do that.” He stammered.

“Stanley, it’s fine, really. I was just standing here, so I might as well have done something.”

“I just needed to sit her down ‘n get her settled ‘n stuff, I wasn’t gone _that_ long, you didn’t have to—”

“ _Stan_. Listen to me.” Stanley looked a little bit affronted. “It’s _fine._ Why won’t you listen to me when I say it’s fine?” Stanley turned away from Ford and shifted from foot to foot, his broad chin jutting forward. “ _Stan_.” He looked back up. “I mean it.” Ford reached forward to place a hand on Stanley’s shoulder. He tensed underneath his palm and gave a slight nod. He didn’t seem convinced. “It’s _fine._ It was rather cute, besides.” Ford gave his brother’s shoulder a quick squeeze. Stanley shifted as though he wanted to shrug the offending hand off, but at the last minute decided to do his damnedest to keep himself in check.

Ford continued. “You said it yourself. She’s only three. And how many times did _we_ play in the sink when we were younger? We did it _all the time._ I mean…” he trailed off, running a hand through his hair, making it flip upright. “Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do? Get into things? You said that yourself.”

“S’not the same.”

Ford scowled. _Not this again._ “How is that—you know what, I suppose you’re right.” He chewed on his lip for a moment. “She’s cuter than the two of us ever were, combined.” he smirked at the startled hiccough that left Stan. _There it is._ A genuine smile. Ford gave Stanley a playful nudge. He didn’t reciprocate. _Okay. That’s fine, too. It’s fine._

Ford fidgeted through another small lull. “…Look. I know you mentioned finding a park. I don’t want you to think I _want_ you two to leave, or… or to ‘get out of my hair.’” Ford sighed. “That’s not what I want, okay? It isn’t.”

Stanley was quiet for a long, stilted moment. “I promised her the park.”

“…Right. Right.” Stanford took a full step back as he withdrew. “I’ll just... I’ll leave you to it, then.” His attention shifted closer to the floor. Out traipsed Stella, her head bobbing from side to side as she bebopped her way towards the two. “Hello again, little Miss.” Ford chuckled.

Stanley turned from side to side as he twisted to spot the child. “Wh— _Stel-la_ ,” Stanley sighed, “I very clearly remember askin’ you to stay in the room.”

“But I don’t wanna.” She was still dancing, Ford noticed. Stanley’s head lolled back as he let out a faint, guttural groan. “I wanna be with you.” Her little voice bordered on petulant as she frowned, staring up at Stan. Were those puppy dog eyes?

Stanley softened. “Oh, pumpkin. How could I say no to that? C’mere.” He scooped her up onto his hip and she used her new vantage point to giggle at Stanford. Unsure of what else to do, Ford gave her a meek little wave while Stanley leaned forward to swipe at the last trail of water with the discarded towel. “Yeah, yeah. It’s funny for _you.”_ He grumbled. “Maybe you can run off whatever’s gotten into you in the park.”

So he _was_ serious about the park. Ford worried his lip between his teeth once again before opening his mouth. “There’s a park on the other side of town, near the town square. Just past the courthouse.” ~~Fiddleford had dragged him to it ages ago, when Tate was still small.~~ He wasn’t sure how he felt about the long, inscrutable gaze Stanley fixed him with.

Finally, the man spoke. “Alright.” He pushed himself upright with a huff of effort, careful not to displace the child on his hip. “Let’s get you ready, sweetie.” _That’s it?_ Ford watched his brother cart Stella off once again before opening his mouth.

“Wait!” he blurted. Stanley turned. “You…You saw your bag, correct?”

Stan wouldn’t meet his eye, and that bothered him. “Yeah, Ford. I got it. Thanks.” He mumbled.

 _They’ll be back,_ Stanford swore to himself, _it’s just the park._ They were going to the park for a short while and they’d return. They weren’t _leaving_ for good. It wasn’t permanent. _Just a temporary excursion._ He’d be able to get some writing done while they were gone. It would be productive for all parties involved. No matter how much he wanted them to remain, playing host was not an easy task for Stanford Pines. He shuffled his way back down the stairs. It would be fine. They’d come back, just as he ~~hoped~~ knew, and then wouldn’t he feel foolish?

He settled himself down to work and pulled a stack of notebooks closer. _Productivity is the best distraction._ He knew this well.

If only he could stop staring somewhere past the words on the page.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but when Stanford looked up, Stella was swishing her way into the room while Stanley struggled to squat walk and work her little arm into a coat at the same time. “Sweetie, be still for a moment. _Please.”_

“Park?”

“Yes, sweetie. We’ll get you to the park, but we gotta get you _dressed_ first. S’cold outside.” He held her little hand in his and tugged the coat in place with the other. He’d layered the coat over a thinner jacket, Ford noted. Stan took the small scarf he’d draped over his forearm and placed it around her neck. Next came a fuzzy, pilled pair of mittens from his pocket. “Hand, please.” She stuck it in the air.

 _Mittens_.

Ford remembered them with little fondness. He _hated_ mittens. They were childish. They were goofy. He couldn’t hold anything or use his hands with any semblance of dexterity while wearing mittens. He had to remove them to do just about _anything,_ which thoroughly defeated the purpose.

Stanley had always gotten a pair of gloves, while Ford had gotten mittens. Ford still treasured the first pair of gloves he’d had made, worn-out though they were. He’d always envied Stanley and his gloves.

He was distinctly bereft of gloves now.

The tables had turned. Now Ford was the twin with gloves. Ford didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry at the thought.

He caught himself staring and shook himself out of his stupor, clearing his throat in the process. Surely he looked foolish.

“Right. The park. It’s… If you head straight past the old convenience store, it’ll take you towards the town square. Turn right at the monument, which will wind past—”

Stanley shuffled his feet. “Aren’t you gonna come show us, since you seem t’ know where this park is?” Stella’s face once again brightened at the magic word. _Was that a little hop just now?_ The child had _hopped._ She was smiling at _him_ , of all people. There was no way he could object. Not now. His eyes trailed over Stanley briefly, and judged his uneasy expression before trailing down to his jacket. Fleece-hooded or not, it wouldn’t keep him warm.

“I…Right. I’ll be right back. Just give me a moment, I’ll…” He trailed off, pointing a vague finger towards his room. “I’ll be right back.” Ford scurried off and pulled open his closet, yanking out his coat. He shrugged it over his shoulders before rifling deeper through, ignoring the thin metallic scrape of the hangers against the rod. Here it was. He pulled out a duplicate coat and tossed it over his arm before stalking back down the hallway, visibly pleased with himself.

“Here.”

“What’s this supposed to be?”

“It’s a coat Stanley. You’ve seen one before.” Ford gave the garment a gentle shake for good measure.

Stan eyed it warily. “Nah, I’m good, thanks.”

Stanford frowned. “Stanley. You put two coats on Stella. It follows that you would wear two yourself.”

“That’s different. She’s little. They get cold easy.”

“Everyone gets cold, Stan.”

“I don’t see _your_ two coats.”

“Underneath this coat, I’ve got on a sweater and long sleeves besides. That’s roughly the equivalent of two coats.”

Stanley squinted at him before taking the proffered coat. Ford didn’t bother to contain his grin.

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, I guess.” Stan grumbled as he shrugged into the coat. It didn’t fit him as poorly as it should have. Once they hit adolescence, Stanley could never fit into anything other than Ford’s T-shirts, and he stretched those out woefully when he did. His coat was just slightly snug through the shoulders and biceps. That was it. It wasn’t how it _should_ have been.

Perhaps he should have been thankful for that, in a backhanded sort of way.

“Alright, kiddo, let’s get you to the park.”

“Can Lucky come too?”

“Uhh, Lucky’s… Lucky’s on house arrest. For his own safety. Yeah. He can’t leave this general area or else he could get in trouble with the, uh, the magic animal police.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Stanley’s eyes darted around as if looking for straws to grasp at. “Because if too many people see ‘im, he gets in trouble ‘cause he’s not a secret anymore. Magic things’ve gotta stay secret.”

“But we can see him.”

“Yeah, but you’re in the special magic no-secret zone, so it’s different. If you weren’t in the magic zone, you wouldn’t be allowed t’ see ‘im, ‘n then he’d be in trouble.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t wanna get Lucky in trouble, do ya?”

“No.”

“Alright. Then Lucky’s gotta stay here.”

“Okay.”

It was bullshit he’d pulled out of thin air, but Ford was still unnerved by its vague similarities to some of his earlier theories. He wondered how many of his other theories, ones he’d spent years researching, could be similarly pulled from nowhere by Stan. _What a fool I must be, to place such import on what must be so readily known._ How many of his ideas had been spoon-fed lies? How had he been fool enough not to see?

What else wasn’t he seeing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took roughly 25 years, I'm aware, but the chapter draft was on page 23 before I realized this was pure nonsense and broke it down into more easily digestible bites.  
> I'm gonna go hide in a shame corner now.


	10. Won't You Take Me Home?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It poured down from the mouths of babes_  
>  _Locusts in a land of grey_  
>  _I am wild-eyed and gone astray_  
>  _Oh brother dear, bear me away_  
>  _Nine Pin_ —Kaia Kater

It was cold, but there was still a smattering of other children in the area that Stella could play with. Stanley and his child seemed to move like a well-timed machine; as soon as he plucked her from the carseat, she shoved a little hand in his and the pair ambled exactly three feet to the trunk, where they dropped hands long enough for Stanley to fish through their worldly belongings to unearth a scuffed little ball and a half-crumpled cigarette carton, the latter of which he shoved into his pocket with a mumbled “nice.”

Ford frowned for a moment. He hadn’t known Stanley smoked. The little hand slipped back into Stanley’s much larger one and the pair inched their way towards the grassy field, with Ford following close behind. He couldn’t help but snicker as he watched Stanley’s arm jerk and jostle with the child’s skipping and jumping. Her doe eyes were locked on Stan as they made their way into the park, and she hovered by his side even as he ambled his way towards a vacant bench. She hiked a wobbly little leg up to climb onto the bench, though her eyes never left Stan long enough for her to give the endeavor the full attention required, and ended up just waving her foot in the air. Stan himself had a deep scowl in place as he scanned the small park, one arm outstretched towards his child and slowly dropping as though he got distracted halfway through reaching for Stella.

“Alright, kiddo. Go ahead.” And with that, Stella dropped all climbing attempts and darted off, doubling back around only to grab her forgotten ball. Stanley’s hawk-like eyes never left her for a moment.

“You know, Stan, I…” Ford trailed off as he turned towards Stanley, worrying his lips together. Stanley’s eyes were still locked on Stella.

He tried again. “She’s quite adept at tag.” More drawn-out silence. “I mean, she’s—”

“She likes runnin’.” Stan grumbled back. Somehow, the simple response startled Ford into a brief silence as Stanley dropped down onto the bench with a faint _whump._ It took Stanford a moment to follow suit.

Ford had to go and open his mouth once more. “You certainly keep a vigilant watch.”

“It only takes a second.”

His mouth went dry. Ford nodded, the movements slow and jerky, before giving his feet an idle shuffle. “I suppose you’re right.” The fact disheartened him. What had made Stanley so afraid? It was a far cry from the childhood they had known. He remembered the two of them, running wild wherever they pleased as long as they weren’t overtly in anyone’s way—which, in retrospect, he had to admit, they often were. Until they found the boat. No one had cared where they’d gone off to, ever. _Free-range children._ Was that not a thing anymore? He turned his attention back to his niece, who had found herself a little friend to run in circles with, her ball clasped between mittened palms. Ford wasn’t sure who was chasing whom. Her grin was broad and infectious and he found himself chuckling along with her from a distance.

He had to speak.

After a while, Stanford let out a small, shaky huff as he steeled himself. “Stanley.”

“What, Ford?” his flat tone unnerved Stanford.

“I know…” he trailed off. “I know we haven’t had the best…track record for communicating with one another in a long while. A long, long while.”

“Oh, geez. Here we go.”

Ford made it a point to ignore Stanley’s derision as he continued. “But I’m _trying._ ” Stanford leaned forward and dug his elbows into his knees, his fingers sliding through his hair. “I’m _trying,_ Stanley. I’m trying. Look, I… I _know_ we’re likely to continue to fight. I know these things will take a while. It’s been three days, counting today, and I think we’ve only stopped bickering for a collective few hours, discounting time spent sleeping.” He ran a hand over his face. “I know I can’t rightly ask you for anything—” he ignored the huff, “but I just need you to know that I’m trying, okay? I don’t… I don’t want things to stay like _this_ for us, alright? Even… Even with my head so far up my ass, as you so eloquently put it, that’s not what I truly _wanted._ ”

Stanley remained still. Once again, he went back to keeping his silent watch, though after a few torturous moments, Ford caught a strained, slight nod as Stanley clenched and unclenched his jaw, working the muscles in a slow, rhythmic pattern. The tense muscles of his shoulders seemed to loosen, if only slightly. Stanford couldn’t help the tentative smile that fought to break its way across his face, nor the hand that reached up to slap his brother across the back one, two, three hesitant times. Maybe they could figure things out. Not simply, not painlessly, but at the very least, it seemed distantly, tentatively possible.

Ford’s eyes wandered back to his niece. “Is that a dog?”

“Yeah.” She and her little friend had plopped down in the dead grass to pet a small, fluffy dog that seemed quite happy for the attention.

“I wish she’d found another dog instead of the leprecorn.” Ford mumbled. “I still need to decide how to get rid of the damned thing.”

“Switch it out with a dog.” Ford turned to Stanley, his eyes searching.

“You’re serious.” A laugh began to bubble up, deep in the back of his throat.

“I’ll hold the damn thing down ‘n help you dye it, if it gets rid of that weird ass thing.”

“No, that wouldn’t suffice. We’d need to attach an artificial horn to the dog as well.”

“I got glue.” Stanley shrugged. “I hate that thing.” Ford guffawed.

Sooner than anticipated, Stella tired of the puppy and retrieved her discarded ball, abandoning her friend in favor of toddling over to the bushes. Stan tensed once again. She stared at the bushes for a while, which unnerved Ford, before finally moving to nudge the ball into the bush.

“Oh, kiddo. Why?” Stanley rubbed a hand across his face. Soon after, the ball popped out of the bush and over Stella’s head, bouncing away a few yards behind her.

“Well, that’s new.”

The little girl darted off after the ball and ran back to shove it back into the bush with a similar result. This time, she clapped and squealed before chasing after it once launched. Was there a gnome or three in the bush intent on playing fetch with children? He’d have to return later to suss them out.

Stella’s little friend reappeared and they both stared at the ball before shoving it back in and chasing after it once more, bounding off hand in hand across the park. Stan snickered beside him. “Atta girl.”

Ford had to admit, it was easily one of the sweetest things he’d seen in a long, long while. Ball retrieved, the two tottered back, taking a detour towards the bench. They started what Ford assumed was meant to be a skipping contest, though neither child was particularly coordinated enough to do much more than hop. Uncoordinated as she was, Stella tripped and landed face-first in the brown grass. Stanley was on his feet before Ford could process that she had fallen and darted over to stand the child upright. He brushed her off while she looked confused with the entire situation.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

He gave her a once-over before nodding. “Good. Who’s your little friend?”

“Where?”

“Standing right next to you, pumpkin.” He tilted his head towards the other child. “Hello, sweetie.”

“Hi!”

“Hi. What’s your name?” The child just grinned.

“Ooookay. Fair enough.” He patted his daughter’s tummy. “You two go play some more, okay?”

“’Kay!” Stella picked up the ball she’d dropped, shoved it towards her father, then darted back off with the mystery child.

“Stay where I can see you, okay?” he called out.

“Okay!” her voice wavered with her bouncing steps. Ford heard Stanley chuckle as he ambled back to the bench. He dropped back down into his seat and Ford spared him a quick look, watching him scrub at his face briefly with his palm. As Stanley stooped forward with his elbows on his haunches, Stanford leaned against the bench’s back. Silence settled over them for a long while and, for what felt like the first time in ages, Ford felt no compulsion to break it. The pair sat quietly and watched as Stella and a gathered assortment of children worked their way through the lightning-fast rounds of whatever game they’d made up.

Had it been that simple when they were children? It couldn’t have been; they were always off by themselves. They wouldn’t have been so ostracized if that were the case. Though, Stella had to have gotten her easy charisma from her father.

“She certainly isn’t shy.”

“Nope.” Stanley popped the ‘p.’

“…That must be some sort of record in friend making. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it happen so quickly.”

“Eh. Get it where you can, I guess.” Stan shrugged.

Ford stared off somewhere behind the children. Why had it been so difficult for _them_ , then? _Had Stanley been born a singleton, he likely wouldn’t have had such issues._ An uneasy weight pinched at the nape of his neck and settled across his shoulders and he scowled down at the dead grass between his feet. Now wasn’t the time to dwell.

Hours passed before Stella’s short little legs carried her back over to Stanley and she climbed her way into his lap. He lifted her up.

“Hey, pumpkin. You tired?”

“No.” The way she nestled down said otherwise, but Stanley made no comment, just raised his brow.

“Just wanted to come sit down?”

“Yeah.”

“Fair enough.” He shrugged, watching her make herself at home. “Can I have a hug?”

“Yeah.” She wiggled around and slung herself over Stanley's shoulder.

He laughed through his cooing noises as he patted her back. “You havin’ fun?”

“Yeah!”

“Good. I’m glad.” He hummed before leaning back to inspect her face. Ford craned his neck to do the same. Her cheeks were rosy, as was her little nose. She grinned down at Stanley for his troubles, her smile punctuated by a wet sniffle.

“Uh-oh. You okay?”

“Yeah!”

“You sure?” She gave him an emphatic nod.

“Wanna go play some more?”

She began to bounce along with her nod. “Yeah, yeah, _yeah, yeah, yeah!_ ” Stanley cringed and lifted her out of his lap, setting her back on the ground.

“Alright, kiddo. Go play, then.” He looked a bit startled when the toddler latched on to his hand and began to tug.

“Okay, you come, too!”

Stanley shoved his eyebrows upwards. “ _Me?_ Don’t you think your uncle’ll get lonesome by himself?”

Stella leaned to the side to squint at Ford, still dangling herself from Stanley’s wrist. “Nope.” _Well, damn._

Stanley cackled. “Alright, I mean, if you’re sure…”

“Yes, I’m sure! C’mon!” she tugged with all her might.

“Alright, sweetie pie. I’m comin’.” He hummed. “What’re we playin’?”

“…I don’t know.”

“You _don’t?_ We gotta figure it out, then, don’t we?”

“ _Yeah!”_ The two voices trailed off as they loped away and Ford settled back to watch his brother and niece. Stanley had one of her little hands in each of his and marched around, hunched over while she stood on his feet. Ford jumped at a shriek she let out, but found himself smiling as Stan lifted her into the air, her feet flying outwards.

“Again! Again!” That much he could discern without difficulty.

They moved on to running in circles. Stanley had scooped her up onto his shoulders and was bouncing his daughter with each prancing step while her shrieks and giggles trailed far behind them. It was a sight he’d have to catalogue for posterity when they got back home. Maybe he could figure out a way to transcribe memories into photos. Surely Stan would want one for his…scrapbook.

He needed a proper scrapbook before anything else, but Ford knew any such gesture would be most unwelcome coming from him.

While Stanford was lost in thought, Stan and Stella returned, the child flushed but obviously pleased with herself while Stanley looked worn-out though content.

“Alright, missy. I think it’s time to head back.”

“’Kay.” She stuck a small mitten in Stanley’s bare hand and he used his free hand to snatch up the ball as Stanford shuffled to his feet.

“Ready?”

“Well, yes, I suppose. Have we—”

“I was talking to _Stella,_ Ford.” _Again_.

“Oh.” Stella dissolved into a fit of giggles. That was reasonable. “Fair enough.” Stanley snorted at him, and was surprised to note that his eye rolling didn’t seem particularly ill-natured for once. He’d take it.

He watched as Stanley contorted himself into the backseat to fasten Stella into her carseat. “Good to go.” He patted her tummy. Ford folded himself back into the passenger’s side to the tune of the child’s self-made song. Was it a song? He couldn’t discern any actual words. “Oookay.” Stanley sank behind the wheel and Ford watched him peer back at Stella in the rearview mirror before pulling off. She seemed content, if her little smile was any indication, and Ford chuckled at the way her little feet kicked to and fro.

“Hi.” She’d spotted him looking at her from the rearview mirror.

“Hello, dear.” The pause was not uncomfortable for once. “…Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Yeah!”

“I’m happy to hear that.” The small child sent him a bright little grin and Ford was grateful to have been dragged along and subjected to such stilted conversation, if only for that smile.

But now what?

She had played through the majority of the day into the early evening. Surely she’d be tuckered out.

But what if she wasn’t?

What if she had another untapped reserve of energy to draw from? Surely coloring would only keep her entertained for so long. What did Stanley usually do to keep occupied? His brow furrowed as he preoccupied himself. He caught Stanley stealing odd glances at him from the corner of his eye and forced himself to straighten his expression.

“We’re here.” _Good. Finally._ Ford stood and pushed himself out of the car, stretching for good measure while Stanley crawled into the backseat. He emerged with a very confused child on his hip. “Wake up, sweetie pie. We’re here.” _Oh_. She’d fallen asleep. Ford supposed that answered his question.

“Where?”

“Ford’s house.”

Stella squinted at the exterior of the cabin, cast in shadow by the last tendrils of sunlight throwing their light behind it. “Why?”

“‘Why?’ Because it’s where he lives?”

“Why do we go too?” Ford strained to hear her mumble.

“I don’t get what you’re asking, honey.”

“We’re not s’posed to go too.” Ford paused with his keys in hand. What was the child getting at?

“Not supposed to—I don’t understand, sweetie. I’m sorry.”

The little girl let out a huff he barely caught. “We go in the car. When do we go back to the car?” _Oh. Oh, fuck._  Ford was going to be sick. He froze in place, eyes averted from parent and child. She wasn’t supposed to understand. She wasn’t supposed to have those questions. She _wasn't._ If he’d said it once, he’d said it a dozen times. Stanley was more than welcome to stay with him, but Stanley kept brushing him off.

Living out of a car was preferable to living with him.

He’d thought they were making some sort of progress, slow though it may have been, but damned if he wasn’t wrong. _No. That’s not right._ These things would have to take time, and he knew that.

It didn’t change that fact that Stanley still preferred a _car_ to him, and so, it appeared, did his child.

It took a while for Stanley to respond. “…I don’t know, sweetie.”

“Uncle Ford’s gonna come with us?”

“No, sweetie, he’s not.” He mumbled back to her. _Sweet Moses._ Ford had to strain to hear him and the small peck he pressed to her forehead through the fumbling jingle of his keys. _No more._ He shuffled his way up the porch steps, making as much noise as he could to avoid eavesdropping any further. He didn’t need to hear any more. He didn’t have the stomach for it.

“Ohh, _fuck you._ ” He narrowly avoided tripping over the leprecorn sound asleep on the doormat. He’d set the damned mat on fire if it kept the stupid beast away.

“Bad word.” Stella whispered in the distance. He shuffled his feet in faint apology. The stupid creature scrambled to its feet in a clatter of hooves and turned from side to side as it tried to find the disturbance.

“Oh, _come on._ It shouldn’t take you that long to spot us, all, we’re _all right here.”_ Ford shoved his key into the lock and turned the bolt, pushing the door open with a light shove.

“ _Hi, Lucky!”_ Stella shrieked. Stanley leaned as far away from her screams as he could without dropping her.

“ _Jesus, Stella. My eardrums.”_

“Hi, Lucky!” she hissed in a poor approximation of a whisper. The stupid beast swatted its tail and pranced from foot to foot as Stella all but leaned herself into falling out of Stanley’s arms.

“Stella, sweetie, _please.”_ He sighed, leaning with her to counter the sudden drop of her weight. “Oh, _fine.”_ He set her down on her feet and straightened her coat while she wiggled out of his grip and away towards the multicolored abomination. She flung her arms around its stubby neck and the faint bagpipe music hit a high note Ford could have lived without hearing.

“Mwah!”

“Oh, no no no _no,_ we do _not_ kiss that thing!” Stanley swooped his daughter back into his arms and skidded through the threshold. “That thing is _dirty._ You don’t know where it’s been!” The little girl let out a single wail of protest as he took her into the kitchen. “C’mon, let’s go rinse your mouth out.”

Ford heard the faucet run as he battled the leprecorn with his foot, hopping backwards as he tried to get inside without the creature slipping past him. “You are _not_ getting in. You shouldn’t even be on my porch. Why are you even _here?_ Go bother someone else!” he paused. “Is that…Is that _Danny Boy with everything flat?”_ The faucet turned off and Ford heard a soft thud, followed by pattering footsteps as Stella zoomed down the hallway, past his line of sight. “Stan! She’s headed for the stairs!” A metallic clatter left the kitchen, followed by Stanley’s thundering footfalls.

“Stella! No stairs!” He caught her hiking her leg up to stumble up, one small hand pressed against the wall. She pouted as he placed her on his hip.

“But I wanna go upstairs!”

“I get that, sweetie, but you can’t go by yourself. You could fall, ‘n that would make me sad. Okay?” he bounced her gently, his soft voice belying the panicked spark still fresh in his eyes.

“Lucky needs a blanket!”

“No, he doesn’t, sweetie. He’s like…half horse. Mostly horse. He’s got fur. He lives outside. He’s _used_ to outside. He doesn’t need your blanket, but it’s awful sweet of you t’ wanna share.” Stella didn’t seem to agree.

“I’ve got a blanket for it, Stan.” He sent the man a quick nod as he roughly pushed the creature out the door with his foot, swinging the door halfway closed. He hurried off towards the treeline. Hopefully that towel was where he’d left it earlier.

Ford came back several minutes later, disgruntled but carrying the towel. “Here. Leprecorn blanket.” He held it high in the air for Stella to see, then dropped it onto the creature with a distinct lack of concern. “Now he’s not cold and we can all go inside _without him._ ”

“Great! I think that sounds good. Does that sound good to you, sweetie?” she opened her mouth to speak, but Stan cut her off and hurried back through the door. “Great, that’s good, now let’s go inside where that thing _isn’t_.”

“That sounds preferable, yes.” Ford shuffled them all back inside and slammed the door in the beast’s face. He told himself the little twinge he felt was just allergies, nothing more. Certainly there was no guilt. That thing was objectively awful, and he stood by that statement.

It didn’t stop him from opening the door just a sliver to check on the damned thing.

≈

Dinner that evening proved to be uneventful. Stan and Ford slapped together sandwiches and Stanley settled in with Stella in his lap to share one.

_Just the one._

Ford hid a frown. Stanley had always had the appetite of a ravenous beast. It was unlikely that part of a sandwich would sate him, though granted, Stella wasn’t much interested in food and only accepted the minimum amount Stanley deemed acceptable.

Now only if Stanley would do the same for himself. Ford stared at the pair for a moment, while Stanley stared at some uncertain point on the kitchen table. Stella had made herself at home against Stanley’s chest and was playing with the long tendrils of his hair that had come loose, her eyes slowly falling closed and shooting back open, only to drift back off again.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry.” She mumbled, tilting her head up to stare at his jaw. Stanley rubbed at his scalp.

“It’s okay, sweetie.”

“Sorry.” She repeated. Stanley propped her up in order to give her a peck on the forehead.

“You look sleepy. Time for bed, huh?” He stood with a grunt and swung her onto his hip. “Let’s get you ready to go to sleep.”

“No.” She buried her face against him and closed her eyes despite her protest.

“Right.” He drawled. “Upstairs it is. Say goodnight, I guess.” He shifted the child onto his shoulder, where she peered over at Ford. She sent him a sleepy little wave and he smiled, wiggling his own fingers as a farewell. He wouldn’t wish her sweet dreams. He’d heard it enough in his own nightmares to send thick, inky dread down his spine at the thought of it.

It was too much of a threat at this point.

His eyes dragged across the sandwich materials still strewn across the counter. If he made another one, maybe he could “forget” about it and get Stanley to eat it when he came back down. That sounded like a reasonable course of action.

And so he waited.

His thoughts kept him company, unwelcome though they were. Stella was so used to the car, staying in one place for any length of time seemed unnatural. They were only on their third day with him, and she expected to be gone by now. He’d only just met her, Ford thought they were beginning to make headway in getting acquainted and reacquainted, but what did he know? _Fuck-all, apparently_. Stability must have been a foreign concept to the child.

_Get it where you can, I guess._ Wasn’t that what Stanley said? Was that why Stella was so…effervescent? If she didn’t make friends on sight, would she make any at all? She hadn’t bothered to learn any of the other children’s names. Was that normal? He wasn’t sure. None of the other children seemed inclined to care, either. Maybe it was.

He _had_ to convince Stanley to stay. None of this was alright. It likely wouldn’t be until he and Stanley could actually _talk_ without couched words and unintended slights and more fights. He didn’t know how long that would take, but he had to do something _now._

When Stanley returned after putting Stella down, Ford was still lost at sea in his own little world, his dread and dismay crashing against him from all sides as he drummed his fingers against his cheek.

“Uh, hey.”

Ford jumped, staring up at the distraction. “Oh! Stanley. Good evening.” Stan gave him an odd squint for that.

“Uhh, yeah.” He hesitated near the doorway. Stanford didn’t know whether he should urge him in or let him be. Stan inched forward of his own accord. _That settles that._

What _unsettled_ Ford, however, was the brown blob he caught moments later drifting past out of the corner of his eye. His hands slapped against the edge of the table and his knuckles whitened as he jumped, sending Stanley into a stiff, defensive stance as it drifted towards the table.

Stan spun around. “Wh—Stella?” his arms fell limp and dangled for a brief moment before he lifted them up in disbelief. “What the heck, sweetie? What did Daddy say about the stairs? You could hurt yourself.” He fussed.

“I didn’t hurt myself.”

Stanley crouched down to lift the child, her little mouth puckered into a pout that clearly defined her feelings on the matter. “Yeah, but you could have.”

“I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point.” He hummed. “The point is,” he drawled, “that you’re not supposed to play on the stairs.”

“I didn’t play!” How could someone so small sound so affronted? “I walked.”

“Mmm-hmm. No playing on the stairs and no walking up or down or on or around the stairs without a grownup with you, okay?” She frowned at Stanley. “I’ll take that as a yes. Now, come on.”

Ford chuckled at the pout pasted on Stella’s face as Stanley carried her away once again, her head bobbing along with his steps.

“I didn’t play.”

“I know you didn’t. It’s okay. But don’t go on the stairs again, okay?” their voices trailed up the stairs and Ford smiled at the fading noise, his cheek pressed against his fist. Maybe the second time would be the charm.

Stanley returned a short while later and dropped into the seat across from Ford with a sigh.

“…Kids?” Ford offered.

“I guess.” Stan propped his arms against the table as he leaned forward. A fond smile wrapped across his face. “Yawnin’ ‘n tired, but still won’t go to sleep.”

“I’m certain she comes by it honestly.” Ford hummed into his fist. “I seem to remember a certain someone refusing to sleep himself.”

“Hey, now, I loved my sleep. Used t’sleep all the time back in the day. You can’t pin that one on me.” _Back in the day? What about now?_ Ford wasn’t one to speak. He could admit to that much. Insomnia was one hell of a state.

“That never stopped you from staying up late with a flashlight trying to read comics.”

“That was _your_ idea, and you know it, Ford.”

“I think you’re missing the point.” The huff that masked Stan’s snicker was one of the most welcomed sounds Ford had heard in years.

“If the point is that _you_ came up with that idea first, then yeah. I’m missing it.” He mumbled. “I’ll also miss the point’a the time you had us up reading that scary book until we were too scared t’ sleep at all.”

“Ma was _so pissed off.”_

“Psh. You ain’t foolin’.” Stan shifted and leaned back against the chair.

“We were in for it when Pa found out we neglected to sleep the entire night.”

Stanley was silent for a long moment. “Yeah.”

And once again, it seemed, Stanford Pines managed to ruin something. Stanley refused to look at him as he dragged his finger along the whorls that stretched along the kitchen table.

As the pair sat in prolonged silence, Stanford heard a small but determined _whump_ and turned to his brother. Stanley tensed for a moment then sighed, pushing himself into a standing position as though resigned. Ford followed suit and the pair slipped into the hallway to find an errant toddler sitting confused at the foot of the stairs, her fingers splayed out on the floor at her sides.

“ _Stella._ ” Stanley huffed. His tone was firm as he crouched down to lift her to her feet, his joints popping. Ford almost winced. “Sweetheart, you’re supposed to be in bed. And you’re _not supposed to go down the stairs like you did._ ” His child frowned up at him. “You know why? Because you could fall, like you just did, and you could hurt yourself.”

“I didn’t fall!”

“So you just decided to sit on the floor? Okay.” Stan moved to squat so that he was eye-level with his child.

“No. I jumped.”

“You— _Stella, that’s not good.”_

“Yes.”

“ _No,_ sweetie. You jumped ‘n fell ‘n you could’ve _hurt yourself_. I don’t _want_ you to hurt yourself. That’s why you’re s’posed t’ be in bed, missy.”

“I didn’t fall!” Her little voice was outright petulant. _All she’s missing is a foot stomp._

“You jumped ‘n you landed on your bottom, huh?” Stanley deduced.

“Yeah. I didn’t fall.”

“Sweetie, that’s fallin’.”

“I didn’t!”

“Okay. You didn’t fall. Fine.” Stanley paused to run a hand through his hair, stopping as his hand snagged against the vestiges of the bun he’d put it in earlier. “You can’t be jumpin’ off the stairs, okay? You scare me doin’ that. _Okay?_ It’s really important, Stella. Daddy’s scared you might really hurt yourself that way.”

The little girl let out a sniffle. _Uh-oh._ She looked absolutely distraught. “But I w-wanna _be with you!”_

Ford witnessed the very moment Stanley’s heart fell to pieces. “Oh, babydoll.” He pulled her into his arms. “Oh, honey.” He rocked back from his haunches to sitting cross-legged in the floor, pulling the child into his lap. She wiped her nose across his shirt, Stanford noticed, but Stanley didn’t seem to mind. “Were you lonesome? Is that what it is?”

The little girl hiccupped.

“You just didn’t wanna be by yourself did you, sweetheart? That’s okay.” He swayed side to side as he rocked her in the floor, his own voice wavering. “That’s okay, sweetie. That’s okay. Just… Just let me know next time, okay? That way we can skip the whole me-fussin’-atcha thing.” He tried to force a little laugh into his words. As far as Ford could tell, it didn’t work. “Sweet lil’ girl. You didn’t mean t’do anything you weren’t s’posed to.”

“ _I didn’t fall._ ” She wailed.

“I know you didn’t, sweetie. I know. Just… Please don’t scare me like that, okay? _Please._ ”

The sudden realization that he was an interloper watching the two doused Stanford like a bucket of ice water. He excused himself from the intimate scene.

It felt strange to watch Stanley do something so mundane, so gentle as to comfort a worked-up child, and even more so for him to be worked-up by it himself. Stanley was supposed to punch away his feelings, but here he was, talking them through with a _baby. Stanley’s_ baby.

_Filbrick would have never_.

The thought tasted like dust in his mouth and was just as welcome. He heard the floorboards creak as Stanley moved to stand, the sound ebbing and slowly slipping away. He must have been pacing. Sure enough, Stanford looked up in time to see Stanley turn on his heel, jiggling the child in his arms with each careful step as he patted her small back.

“Daddy’s here, sweetie. You know that. I’ll always be here, okay? _Always_.” He buried his face in the girl’s hair.

Ford felt an inexplicable ache deep in his chest as Stanley spoke.

A hushed silence stifled the kitchen as Stan and Ford sat, while Stella curled herself into Stanley’s lap.

“Finally asleep?”

“Yeah.” He could hardly hear Stan’s response. His brother ran a ragged hand down his face as he sighed. Stanley wasn’t supposed to make that face. He wasn’t supposed to look so _vulnerable._ He was the strong twin.

“I…You certainly are popular today.” Stanford offered.

It took Stan a long while to respond. “Yeah.” Another stiff bout of silence. “Gotta stop ‘n enjoy it while I can.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

Stanley looked agitated. “She’s still little. They still like you when they’re little.”

“Stan, that’s not how that works. That’s _not_ how that’s supposed to work.”

“Sure it is.”

“So you’re telling me you hate Ma now that you’re an adult?”

“What? No! Of course not!” he fidgeted. “That’s different.”

“How is that different?”

Stanley pursed his lips as he glowered at Ford. “It just _is._ ”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. _Enlighten me.”_

Stanley rolled his eyes, his tone tinged with whatever longsuffering indignation he’d engineered for himself. “I screw everything up, so it flip-flops. She’s the one who’s s’posed to—”

“Don’t you _dare_ finish that thought, Stanley.”

“But I mean—”

“If Stella gets older and makes a mistake, will you suddenly hate her?”

“ _Of course not! I could never—”_

“Then why would you expect Ma to hate _you?_ ” He stared at Stanley for a long moment.

“That’s just how it _works,_ Ford. I ruined things for _everyone._ ” His voice was just above a faint grumble.

“Why would that—oh.” _Fuck._ He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up on a large scale. A large, overarching scale with no discernible end in sight. “Oh, Stanley…”

“It just _is.”_ He wrapped his arms tighter around the child in his lap.

And how could Ford argue? Their father had tossed him out like trash without batting an eye. If _he_ didn’t want him, why would their mother? He didn’t have much reason to think otherwise, did he?

Worst of all, Stanford had made it so. He’d enforced that mindset himself. _I ruined my brother’s life._ He’d ruined his brother’s life and made the man shoulder the blame himself. How could he have fucked up so badly?

“I…Then surely you must hate me as well.” He ventured, wincing as he opened the proverbial door. No, he didn’t just _open_ it. He might as well have kicked it down. Maybe Stan could have a good time wading through the rest of the insecurities he’d tucked away inside there, while he was at it. Stanley remained silent and refused to look at him, and it put Ford on edge. “I certainly made my share of mistakes.”

Stan groaned. “Ford, everything I got, I had comin’ to me ‘n we both know that.” Stanley bit his lip with a frown as he paused. His shoulders slumped. He looked so _resigned._ The last time Ford had seen that look was when they were teens and Stanley had gotten rejected by some girl or another. No, this wasn’t the same. There was something dark and heavy and quiet lingering behind his face now, more so than the morose ambling he’d known years ago. “I don’t… I don’t know, Ford. Okay? I don’t know about a lot of things. I think I’m still mad. I _know_ I don’t wanna be _here_ , _that’s_ for damn sure, ‘n…” Ford winced at the look of sheer distaste curdling Stanley’s face, “ ‘n I know this is all one great big mess, but I don’t think I _hate_ you.” Stanley sighed. “I’m angry, for sure. _With_ you? Sure. Maybe. I guess. About? I dunno. Somethin’. A lotta things. Nothin’. Everything. _I don’t know._ ” His hand flew back to his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Look. Can we… Can we _not_ do this right now?”

Ford gave him a chalky nod, soft and crumbling. “Of… Of course. Certainly.”

“Good.”

Neither man spoke or moved, save for Stanley’s hand rubbing gentle circles along Stella’s back. Stanley broke the lingering dread with a sigh. He shifted the child so that she rested on his shoulder and pushed back his chair to stand.

“Are…Are you going to bed?”

“Nah. I need a cigarette.” Stan grumbled. Ford frowned, but caught himself.

“Do you… Do you want me to hold her?” his fingers twitched and he moved to push them under the table and out of sight. He caught Stanley scowl at him for it.

“I got ‘er. It’s fine. And stop…stop doin’ that, Ford.” He grumbled as an afterthought. “Quit hidin’ your hands. Doesn’t make any sense.”

Ford ignored him. “I’m fairly certain you aren’t supposed to smoke with small children that close.”

“Yeah, well, do what y’ gotta.”

Ford frowned. “Stanley, you don’t _have_ to. I’m right here, I can hold her. She’s _asleep._ ”

“She might wake up.”

“If she wakes up, I’ll tell her you went outside. It’s _fine._ ”

Stan was silent for a moment. “But she wanted to stay with me.”

“Stanley. You’re going outside. It’s _cold._ She’s not dressed for cold. Look at her. She’s dressed to sleep, which she _is_. Asleep. She’s wearing an oversized t-shirt. You can’t take her out like that.” _He_ wasn’t dressed for the cold, either, but Ford was willing to let that slide. Stanley shuffled his feet, a frown crossing his face. _You know I’m right._ “Look. I’ll stand right here with her. I can see you from the window. If she wakes up, which she probably won’t, she can _see you_ and it’ll be _fine._ ”

Stan shuffled his feet. "You'll let me know if she wakes up?"

"Of course."

With a reluctant huff, Stanley crept close enough to pass off the child. "Here. Just...Just be careful, okay?" He whispered. Ford felt it obvious that Stanley didn't tend to let others hold his child.

"I can assure you, I'll stand here, in this exact spot, with the utmost of care." Stan either ignored the light jab or missed it altogether, giving Ford a shaky not as he fumbled through his pockets.

"I'll–I'll be right back. Right back." _Moses_ , the man was spooked. He hadn't had this much difficulty in leaving when he went off in search of a fight ring. As he watched the man all but back out of the door without taking his eyes off of the child, it occurred to him that he might have gone through the same reluctant song and dance when he’d left to go and fight. Stella shifted in her sleep and Stanley all but leapt back through the half-closed door, eyes wide.

"Stanley. It's _fine_. Go smoke. The sooner you finish, the sooner you can take her back."

"Right. Fine." The door shut with a gentle click, and was immediately followed by Stanley's muffled yelp. "Fuck! Fuckin’ _leprechaun!_ Can't you sleep somewhere better? Fuck's sake!" His footsteps thudded down the steps and Stanford turned on the porch light as an afterthought. At least _now_ he’d be able to see the leprecorn. _Better late than never._

Stanford began to pace as well, doing his best to imitate the motions Stanley had done moments before. He froze the moment Stella began to squirm, letting out a puff of relief when she settled back down. He knew he'd acknowledged it several times before, but she was _miniscule_. How could a _person_ fit in his arms so completely? He found himself suddenly overwhelmed.

A tiny arm shot up and whacked Stanford in the face, nearly knocking his glasses askew.

Maybe the concept of holding small children was more involved than he anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *posts and runs away*


	11. I Long To Belong (But I Always Have To Go)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Home ties me up with discontent_   
>  _Since the day I first went_   
>  _Yearning to be back again,_   
>  _How will I return, and when?_   
>  [Billie Marten—Ribbon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9nt7AIib7hw)

Though tranquil, Sunday was filled with small challenges, most of which included trying not to step on tiny fingers. Breakfast had hardly consisted of anything. Stanley had been quiet and unresponsive and Stella turned her nose up at the leprecorn-infested cereal and refused all but the plain toast Stan had cajoled her into accepting.

There had been no tears on Sunday, but Stanford wasn't sure the sheer malaise was much better. After eating half of the toast and leaving the rest as crumbs across her face and Stan's lap, Stella stuck out a little leg in order to climb down. Stanley wrapped an arm around her middle.

"Wait, sweetie."

"But I want to go outside."

"You're not dressed for outside, sweetie. How's about we go outside a little later 'n right now we play somethin' inside?"

"Okay." Stanley set her on her wobbly feet and she tottered off towards the living room with Stanley not far behind.

"Can we play giggle bunny?"

"...Giggle bunny?"

"Punch buggy with more laughin'." Stanley mumbled. "That only works for cars, sweetie. We'll have to play somethin' else."

Her little face puckered into a frown of concentration. "I spy?"

"That might work, sweetie, but I dunno."

"Giggle bunny spy!" She hopped as she made her proposal.

"What?" Ford couldn't stop the word from slipping out.

"We play I spy and...and...'n we giggle when we see something!" Another hop.

"This game doesn't sound sustainable."

"Shut up, Ford."

"But–"

"Giggle bunny spy. Alright pumpkin. Let's play."

"You go first, Daddy."

"No, you go first. You gotta show me how t'play, remember?"

"Oh." Stella was silent for a moment before snickering.

"Has the game started?"

"Yeah."

Stanford would never understand this "game," and resigned himself to his fate.

Giggle bunny spy soon turned into a nap in the floor for Stella after she laughed herself into a coughing fit. "Giggling is tiring work, it seems." Stanford mumbled as he stared down at the child asleep in the threshold.

"Everything's tirin' work when you're three."

"That may be true." Ford hovered in the doorway.

"You can just step over her, y'know." _Step over her?_

"No, it's fine."

"You're tryin' t' get out of the room 'n you're just standin' there. Just step over her." He sniffed

"I..."

"Ford. You gonna just wait for her to wake up ‘n move? Just go."

He refused.

With a groan, Stanley stood and ambled over to the pair and hunched over to lift Stella. Ford slipped past, and when he returned, he found the child once again sprawled out across the threshold.

"It's where she wanted to be." Stan shrugged. He made no motions to move her. _Well, damnit._ Ford lifted his foot high, and with one white-knuckled hand gripping the jamb, stretched to tiptoe over the sleeping lump.

"There. Now, was that so hard?"

_Yes._ "I could have stepped on her." He could have broken her tiny fingers. His heart raced at the prospect. His thoughts wandered back to his childhood, when he and Stanley had been cornered by the neighborhood bullies and gotten into a fight. He’d made a fist wrong and broken his hand and had to be taken to the hospital and gawked at. He didn’t want that for Stanley’s child. She didn’t deserve it. “I could have _stepped on her.”_ He could have broken her fingers and ruined her hands and—

"Ford. It’s _fine._ Calm down." A few minutes later the child sat up, groggy and rubbing her eyes. She bumbled to her feet and crept closer to Stanley, who pulled her into his lap. She hunkered back down. "Still sleepy, sweetie pie?" She didn't reply. "Alright, sweetie. Go back to sleep." Ford watched as Stanley began to rock her from side to side, the movements slow and clearly practiced. Sure enough, Stanley's eyes began to fall heavy-lidded themselves and the two were soon sound asleep. Ford watched them for a long moment before actually moving. A pen slipped into his hand while the other slapped flat against a leather-bound book. The scene was too pristine to let it pass unnoted, and he’d yet to document their visit.

And so he sketched, taking care to hatch out the details of the napping scene across from him. There were better, more precise ways to commit it to memory, he knew, but this one brought him the most satisfaction in that moment.

His hand traced the lines of Stan’s face, which was a great deal more relaxed than he’d seen in over twenty years. He wasn’t smiling. There was just… an absence of anything, if he was honest with himself. Stanley was just _asleep._ No sleeping with a smile, no frown. An absence of any discernible _anything._ Even as children, when Stanley slept like the dead, there was a certain careless _ease_ with which he did so. Not anymore. Even his sleep seemed to hold that standardized disinterest Stan seemed so eager to front.

And so Stanford wrote.

> _After many years since our last encounter, Stanley actually agreed to meet with me once again. Imagine my surprise when my long-estranged brother returned, and with a child in tow, no less! I have a small niece, and her name is Stella. I have yet to ask for her second name. I suppose I should get around to it soon, before the question becomes out-of-place. She’s quite small; Stanley says she’s three years old, yet I’d assumed she was barely two. Despite her small stature, her resemblance to Stanley is quite striking. Stanley refuses to tell me who her mother is, so I find it safe to assume that I wouldn’t know her anyway. Nonetheless, there’s something familiar in the features she doesn’t share with Stanley, or myself by extension, I suppose. Her hair is certainly curly, as would befit any Pines, but there’s also something about it I can’t quite place._
> 
> _Hair aside, she and I share the distinct misfortune of having inherited the polydactyl gene, though she doesn’t seem to have noticed yet. She’s too young to understand the birth defect now, but I fear she will learn, in due time, how distinct her hands are in comparison to others. I can only hope that other children will not be as cruel to her as they were to me. Though he insists that he does not want to turn her hands into an ordeal for her to be ashamed of, I can’t help but worry that Stanley’s indifference towards the matter will cause more harm in the long run, from our personal experience. Our very first day of school was none too enjoyable with the realization that my hands were decidedly not the norm._

He hatched out the details of the little girl’s hair as she dozed.

> _Little Stella is certainly a charismatic child and it’s evident that Stanley loves her dearly. He’s changed a great deal from how I remember him._

_Is it my fault?_

Stanford’s brow furrowed.

> _She seems to be a content little girl, despite the circumstances. I question the normalcy of it, though I suppose I should rather appreciate her versatility than wish upon her the turmoil that such a life must surely bring. I can’t help but wonder how Stanley managed it. She seems accustomed to such a life, though not bitter or resentful about it in the least. Is it that she doesn’t know enough to feel indignant? I shouldn’t wish such on either of them. Stanley has suffered enough. It’s a wonder that he appears to have shielded his daughter from the brunt of it._
> 
> _Her current interests include:_

  * > _Naptime, apparently_

  * > _Being held—she seems to be a very affectionate child. She must get that from Stanley_

  * > _Stanley himself—she insists on remaining in his company and the depth of her affection nearly moved him to tears the day prior_

  * > _Coloring and the color green_

  * > _Giggling, running and playing in water—she’s quite adept at all three_

  * > _And worst of all, the Leprecorn! I don’t understand what it is she sees in the horrid creature. It does nothing but play annoying music, stand in the way, and giggle. Maybe she likes it for its giggling. If that happens to be the case, perhaps a hyena would make a better companion._




Stanford left the pen in place as he stilled, the ink crawling across the page to feather into a crackling pattern as the nib lingered.

> _How was it possible for Stan to care for a newborn with no means, and from the backseat of a car, no less? I shudder to think of the ways in which such a situation would have compounded the inherent difficulties of childrearing. It’s astounding that Stella survived infancy. Statistically speaking, she should not have survived._

His eyes flitted back up to Stanley, catching the hint of a frown that began to curl across his features. Stanford let the ink dry into the page before flipping to the next.

> _It pains me to accept it, but Stanley appears to be much worse off than he was the last two times I saw him, which is saying a great deal, since he was (still) homeless the first time, and just plucked from who knows where on the other side of the portal the second. He seems worn out completely. It’s as though he’s just_ done _with everything that arises. It’s a long ways away from the brazen and outgoing child he’d been when we were young._
> 
> _His physical condition is more shocking than I anticipated. Stanley has numerous scars and injuries, though I must admit I do not know at what juncture each appeared, sav **e for one.**_

His hand lingered as he hesitated over the words, inadvertently bolding them with his shaky letters.

> _I do not know how Stanley survived the brand._

His thoughts strayed back to an earlier journal entry, the one he’d written after sending his brother through his hellhole. **_Fool Fool FOOL FOOL FOOL—_** He’d nearly gouged through the page with the force with which he bore down on the nib. The same frenetic force had kicked Stanley against the metal that seared and bored into his skin. **_I killed my brother. I know I did. I killed him and he is dead. Stanley is dead because I killed him I did it myself I—_**

Ford remembered the page well. His eye had wept ~~tears and~~ blood again, and the oxidized stains crackled when he turned the pages. These two pages had blessedly stuck together, though it didn’t matter. They were still stuck well within the forefront of his mind. ** _I never wanted to but he won’t know that because he’s DEAD and it’s entirely my fault I killed him twice I killed my brother three times—_** It was true. Thrice he’d killed Stanley. He’d killed his dreams when he’d shut the curtains on him and turned away. His future died along with them. He’d killed his flesh when he kicked him into the branding plate, and he’d killed and damned his existence when he sent him through the portal. He’d been so eager to condemn him for his past affronts that he stepped into the roles of both jury and executioner without a second thought. He hadn’t considered that it would actually take him from this earth until it was too late.

He’d managed to bring him back ~~if only the husk,~~ but it was far too late to bring his spirit back, wasn’t it? _That died and withered a long time ago._

> _The only thing that seems to engage Stanley, other than frequent spats with me, is Stella. The child has him wrapped around her little fingers (all six!!) and I doubt he would have it any other way. I don’t know how not to instigate a fight with him, apparently, as most interactions end with at least some tension. I believe outward actions may be a better means of communication in this circumstance, though the theory remains to be tested. He seems to take offense at several smaller gestures, though with the potential aid of my own mouth._
> 
> _I can only hope this will prove successful._

Stella sneezed in her sleep and woke herself in the process. Stanford raised an eyebrow, forcing back a chuckle as she sat up and searched for the culprit. She squinted at him.

“I believe we’re supposed to cover our mouths when we sneeze, Stella.”

“No.” she rubbed her eyes before settling back down. _Sleepyheads, the both of them._ Ford smiled. He’d let them sleep for the time being.

 

Hours later, a sharp inhale of air preceded Stanley’s eyes peeling open. “Ugh.”

Stan had woken up stiff and sore, Ford could tell. He’d made that same face enough. “…You alright?”

“Yeah.” He grumbled back.

“If you need, I’ve got some—”

“I’m good.” So he wouldn’t admit to his obvious discomfort. _Alright_.

Stella was still sound asleep in her father’s arms as he inched his way to his feet to pace with her. Wasn’t that for children who were upset? She was _asleep_. What was the point?

When she finally did wake, Stella slapped a hand to her face to rub at her eye, letting out a little whine as she tried to take in her surroundings.

“Hi, sweetiepie,” Stanley cooed, in a voice so gentle it unnerved Ford. “Hi! Oh, sweetie, you’re okay.” The child had begun to whine as she turned her head from side to side. “It’s okay.” Stanley shifted her to place an onslaught of kisses to her pudgy cheek and gradually the small whimpers turned to faint giggles. She rested her head against his shoulder. “That’s more like it.”

He stood in place and rocked for a few moments before she spoke up. “C’n I go play?”

“Outside?”

“Yeah. I wanna play outside.”

Stan mulled it over. “You’ve been so quiet all day. Sure.”

“’Kay.”

“Let’s go get your coat.”

The pair wandered outside while Stanley finagled a little arm through a sleeve, his own thin jacket tossed over his shoulder. “Lucky!” Stanford heard a set of hooves lope across the porch. “Hi!”

“TOP ‘O THE MORNIN’ TO YA!”

“OHH. Oh. It… It actually _does_ talk. Geez. Okay. Alright.” Ford heard a series of stomps and hops interspersed with laughter. He could have done without the leprecorn’s laughter. “Yeah, you two practice gallopin’. Good plan.” Stan’s voice was muffled.

Stanford let the syncopated clomping fall to the background as he turned his attention back to the stacks of paper strewn across his worktable.

By the time he looked up from his work, the sun had long since set and Stan and his daughter had been tucked away upstairs for what might have been hours.

≈

The following day, Ford waited for Stan to make his way down the stairs before stopping him in his tracks. “We should go out today to buy a baby gate.”

“The f—I don’t know what it is you’re gettin’ at, but whatever it is, it’s too early for this.”

“It’s necessary.”

“Ford, can I at least set my child down before you start throwing sh—throwing stuff at me?”

Ford relented long enough for Stanley to do just that, and watched as his brother sat his groggy daughter in the kitchen chair. She let out a whine on contact with the wood, and he promptly lifted her back up. “It’s a good investment.”

“Listen t’what you just said and think about how that makes any sense.”

“Stanley, I’m serious.”

“So’m I. We’re not gonna be here that long. What sense does it make to buy a baby gate?”

“The point still remains that it _would_ be useful while you’re here.”

Stan paced in place for a moment, his mouth opening and closing as though he were interrupting himself. “Why are you doing this, Ford?” his voice was barely above a whisper and everything about that screamed _wrong_ in Stanford’s ears. Stanley wasn’t supposed to sound like that. That broken, ragged tone was not supposed to leave his mouth.

Stella, who was slung over Stanley’s shoulder, looked around for a moment before giving Stanford a grin. “Hi!”

“Good morning, sweetling.” He hummed. She stuck her hand out and it took Ford a moment to realize he was probably supposed to take it. “Oh.” He offered her his hand and she strained to grab it, clamping two of his fingers in her tiny fist. Ford stared at the small digits. It earned him a coo. _How sweet._ She was certainly a happy baby, and for that, he was thankful.

Stanley moved to step forward, not realizing she had a grasp on Stanford, and garnered a yelp from all three parties for it. As he froze, Stella stuck her free hand out towards her uncle.

“I… You want _me_ to carry you?” She was already in Stanley’s arms, why would she want _him?_ Her little free hand waved in the air and he reached for her, hesitant until she slid out of Stanley’s arms and her weight dropped into his. Ford pulled her close and tried to imitate Stanley’s posture, unable to school his face into anything other than shock as she wiggled and made herself comfortable. He craned his neck to get a better look at her. “Ah, good morning?” Her warm little cheek pressed against his as she leaned in despite his efforts to inspect her face. He couldn’t bring himself to mind. “Stella, would you like to go to the store today? We could get some things.” He offered.

“ _Stanford!”_

“Yeah.” Stella hummed, unenthused yet without her father’s outright disdain for the idea. Her hand came up to his shoulder and she balled the fabric of his shirt into her fist. He might’ve been dismayed if he’d ever cared about wrinkled fabric.

“I…” He wasn't sure what else to say. How did one hold a conversation with toddlers? “Are you...having a good morning?"

“Yeah.”

“Good. I'm glad.”

"Stella, sweetie, let's get some breakfast in you. You want some of your cereal?"

"No." She reached for Stanley all the same.

"No? But it's got Lucky on it."

"No."

"Toast? How 'bout toast?"

"I don' want any." She frowned. Stan sighed.

"Okay. Whatever. You'll pipe up when you're hungry. What about thirsty? D'you want some milk?"

She thought about it for a moment. "Okay. But only a little!“

Stanley plucked his child from Ford's arms and placed her back in the chair, ignoring her little huff as he pulled out a glass. "Here, pumpkin."

"And you?"

Stan paused. "What?"

"What'll you have?"

"I'm good."

"Stan."

"Ford." He mirrored his tone.

Ford pursed his lips. "I'll repeat. What should we have for breakfast?"

"I'm fine, Ford." Stanley mumbled, clearing his throat shortly after. That didn't _sound_ fine. His brother eyed him. “Stop worryin’ about it.”

“Someone has to if you won’t.” he grumbled under his breath. Stanley shot him a glare and he made it a point to ignore it. "I'll try not to ruin the eggs again."

"Ford, don't bother."

"I will do exactly that." He heard Stanley force a groan from between pursed lips. "I'm assuming scrambled is fine? Because I'm afraid any more than that might be asking a bit much at this stage." He turned to look at his brother, unnerved by the way he'd contorted himself to lay his head against the table without disturbing Stella and her glass of milk. "Are...are you alright?"

"I'm _fine_ , Ford." Stanley sighed. "It's just a headache." It sounded like an afterthought.

"Are you sure?"

" _Ford_."

"Right. Sorry. Maybe. Possibly. I suppose."

"Oh, sweet Moses."

Stella jerked her glass away from her face with a cough and Stanley bolted upright. "Shit, sweetie, are you okay? Please tell me you're okay." She wiped at her eye as he patted her back and it took Ford a moment to realize the egg in his hand was now the victim of his balled fist.

"You said a bad word." Her little voice was watery.

Stanley's nervous chuckle was high-pitched and wavering. "Sweet Moses, don't scare me like that. Don't drink so fast, okay?"

"I didn't!" Her small voice had a slight rasp and she struggled to clear her throat. Stanley leaned her forward as he thumped her little back. After a few moments she began to hum, her voice rattling.

“Now you’re just playin’. Feel better?”

“Yeah.” She drawled the word out.

“Good.”

Ford’s shoulders loosened as Stanley pressed a kiss to her forehead and he looked down at the egg dripping from his wrist with a scowl. “Tch. Wonderful.”

Stanley turned, poised to speak, then paused. “Oh. Egg. Gross.”

“Suffice it to say my appetite has been lost.”

“I was tellin’ you that before.”

≈

“Ford, enough with the baby gate. It’s _fine_.”

“Didn’t you say it only takes a second?”

“I—Oh, fuck you.”

Ford had kept at it for hours. Stan did his best to ignore him, but he was only a man. He could only put with so much before he snapped, and he refused to do that in front of Stella again. He gave in instead. He only wished he could wipe that stupid smirk off of Ford’s face as he buckled himself into the passenger seat of the Stanleymobile.

_“It only takes a second.”_ Stanley mimicked as he finished buckling Stella into her car seat and folded himself behind the wheel.

“What?”

“Nothin’, sweetie. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.” She seemed uncertain as her little feet flopped to and fro in the seat.

Baby gates.

They were headed two towns over for a _baby gate._ What sense did that make? What did he have to do to get Ford to understand? They weren’t gonna stay for long. _Coming up here was a stupid idea._

They just needed to grab the cheapest baby gate they had and run back out. That wasn’t too tall of an order.

This was Stanford Pines. Of course it was a tall order.

Once inside, Stanley grabbed a basket and plopped Stella in the seat. _It’s too early for all of this._ “Baby gates. C’mon.”

“Why?” Stella piped.

“The baby gate? It’s for you.” He gave her a quick peck on the nose, satisfied with her little grin. _That’s my girl._

“Why?”

“Beats me.”

“Now, Stanley—Oh, wait.” Stanford stretched out an arm to still Stanley, his spare hand reaching out to point to a shelf.

“What?” Stanley’s eyes trailed upwards to follow the line of Stanford’s arm. “No. Not at all. Absolutely not.

“Stanley, be reasonable.”

“I’m perfectly reasonable. _You_ be reasonable. No one needs 100 Toaster Pops. Put that back.” He caught Ford wincing at his daughter and glanced down. Stella’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men as she gripped the basket’s handle bar, one hand creeping towards Stanley’s. It seemed her worried little face was the only thing that convinced Ford to acquiesce.

“ _Fine._ But bulk stores like this are an excellent opportunity to stock up on much-needed items.”

“Mmm hmm, and Toaster Pops ain’t one of ‘em.” It was with determination that Stanley pushed the basket up and down the aisles. “Really, Ford?”

“What?” _This_ was why Ford wanted to come all the way out here? Did Ford not expect him to catch on? Jesus Christ, he was dumb, but he wasn’t _that_ dumb.

“Really, Ford? Really?”

“ _What?_ What, Stanley? _What?”_

He’d caught the man in the middle of tossing something extra into his basket. “Really?”

“A multi-pack of shirts is a necessity, Stanley. You know this.” A necessity for _who?_ Stanley just stared at him. This was all too ridiculous for words. “You know I buy shirts in multiple sets.”

“And you _have_ those sets, Ford. You don’t _need_ any more.” Stan grumbled. “You’re not buying this for yourself.”

Ford was silent for a moment as Stanley scowled. “And if I’m not? It that really so bad?”

“Yes. Put ‘em back.” The pair stared at each other, long and hard. Fords scowl matched Stanley’s and he cocked a brow, reaching for a nearby pack of socks. “ _Ford.”_ Stanley’s shoulders fell. Why was he doing this? It was damn near taunting.

“It’s going in the basket, Stanley.” Ford’s voice was soft but he still found it abrasive all the same. Where the hell did he get off with all of this? Ford sent him a searching look. _Oh._ He was _trying._ Was that it? Trying or not, Ford was _out of line._ Stan glared at him for a few moments.

“Come on. We’re not even on the right aisle for Pete’s sake.”

“Very well.” _Very well._ Stan was able to stop himself from mimicking Ford out loud, but only just.

“C’mon, sweetie pie.” Stella’s little hands splayed out over his as he pushed the basket. She was pouting up at him. He leaned down to place a kiss to the tip of her nose. _Still frowning._ He kissed her again. And again. And blew a raspberry against her forehead. _There we go._ “There’s that lil’ baby laugh.” He grinned, speeding the basket along. He’d find the baby gates his damn self. Maybe Ford wouldn’t be able to pick up more shit without a basket to throw it in.

He’d been wrong. Stanford went and got a basket of his own and passed by father and child as they made their way across the store. _Damnit._ Stanley wanted to shove the damned thing against a wall. He paused to hold Stella for a little while, after she’d grown fussy and tired of riding in the basket. He figured he’d get tired of riding backwards with nothing to look at but his ugly mug, too. The only problem now was that she refused to get back in the basket.

“Sweetie, I need you to sit here. What’s wrong?” What had gotten into her?

“No. I wanna stay with you.”

“I’m right here, pumpkin. Right here. You know that.” Stanley sighed and hefted her higher in his arms. “What’m I gonna do with you, huh?”

“No.”

“Let’s go find this gate before you get any fussier.”

“No.”

“Oh, geez.”

Ford had beaten to the children’s section. He’d propped two gates in his basket—because of course he did, when one was already overkill— and was mulling over _diapers?_ Stanley thanked his lucky stars Stella had been easy to potty train. It had still been absolute hell, but considering his circumstances, he figured he’d gotten off easy. “Stanford, she literally doesn’t need those.” He leaned in to inspect a brightly-colored box at the bottom of the basket, underneath the gates. “Ford, put the Blebbos _back._ Seriously? Space Princess Magic Castle?” Ford had always loved the stupid little blocks when they were kids. Of course he’d pick up a set.

“She may like it, Stanley.” Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. _And where would she play with it?_ For once, reading would actually save Stanley. He lurched forward to reach into Ford’s basket, ignoring the little whimper Stella gave him as he stepped away.

“Look.” He stretched an arm out to place a hand on her tummy, hoping to placate her. “Ages six and up. Choking hazard.” He watched Ford blanch.

“Shit.”

Stella whined.

“I didn’t realize. I just thought she might like to put it together, I didn’t—“

“Ford. It’s fine. It’s fine, okay? She just doesn’t need that.” Ford gave him a crumbling nod and placed the box back on the shelf. Stanley turned back to his own basket, adorned with his wet-eyed baby doing her best to reach for him. She let out a little hiccup. He wilted. “Oh, _sweetie._ ” He pulled her into his arms and she immediately grabbed a fistful of his hair. He figured there was no putting her down _now_. He settled for swaying from side to side, letting her bury her wet little face in the crook of his neck. “Oh, sweetheart. It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” Ford swooped in and transferred the contents of Stanley’s basket into his. “Oh, for fu—would you just leave it?” he hissed.

“No.”

Stanley let out a guttural groan. “Let’s just go, okay? We’ve been here too long.”

They didn’t make it three yards before Stanford stopped to look at an endcap. He was staring at more baby items. “Stanford, no.” Stan whispered, one hand rubbing smooth circles along his child’s back. “ _No._ Just _stop._ ” This was entirely too much. He wanted to be sick.

“What does she need?”

“She needs you to not do this, how ‘bout that?” He didn’t appreciate the glare Ford sent him.

“Stanley, be reasonable. I _want_ to do this.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to.” Her stuff was fine. Some of it was big enough that he didn’t have to worry if she hit a growth spurt soon. It’d be _fine._ He’d get away from Ford and all this stupid shit and he’d be able to start scrounging and saving up again once he paid him back, and he’d be able to get her stuff when she _needed_ it. Right now, she was _fine._

“I’ve decided it’s my duty as an uncle.”

“You don’t do these things for Isaac, I bet.”

“Isaac doesn’t—“ _Isaac doesn’t need them_. He dared him to say it. “Isaac isn’t here right now.”

“Stanford—“

“I only have one niece.” He only had one nephew, too, if they were gonna play this game. “And one twin.” Stan was certain he wasn’t supposed to hear that. He didn’t _want_ to hear it. He bit down on his tongue and pushed a heavy sigh from his nose. Deep breathing never calmed him, but there was a first time for everything. “What does she need, Stan?”

Stanley shook his head, holding his lip captive between his teeth. “No.” There was no way in hell.

“Stanley. I want to do this. It’s the least I can do, all things considered.”

The least he could do was _stop humiliating him in public,_ but Stan didn’t see that happening in the next century.

“What about socks? I didn’t see many that had mates.”

“Oh, for… She needs some of those lil’ stretchy baby pants. ‘N some jammies.” Stan grumbled. He did his best to keep his voice as soft as possible. It was either that or shout, and even _he_ wasn’t dumb enough to want to do that in the middle of a store. His little girl looked on the verge of tears as it was. Part of him hoped that Ford didn’t hear him. Another part knew that he’d only ask again if that were the case. This shit was _mortifying,_ why couldn’t he figure that out?

Stella began to scrub her face against his shoulder. “Look, can we speed this up, Ford? I think she wants to be here ‘bout as much as I do.” She was probably tired. She’d never had a definite naptime, but she’d usually have fallen asleep at least once by this point.

“Right. Okay.” Stan watched Ford reach into a rack of children’s clothes before he paused. “She wears a size—”

“Get 3T.” Ford’s brow wrinkled at that, but Stanley chose to ignore it. It might be too big, but she could grow into it that way. If he was gonna waste money, there was no need to waste money on something she wouldn’t be able to use as long. He began to bounce slightly with each step, pacing back and forth along the aisle. He was too busy soothing his fussy child to notice Stanford grab an oversized stuffed unicorn and shove it in the basket, underneath the second baby gate.

Of course Stanley noticed the stupid horse once they reached the cashier.

“What is _this?_ ”

Stanford pretended not to understand for a moment. _Smooth. Real smooth._ “It’s a stuffed animal.” He sniffed.

“ _Ford._ Seriously? She doesn't need that thing.”

“Look at her. She loves it.”

“Her eyes are closed and she can’t see it.”

“She wants it.”

“She—You didn't even _ask._ _She_ didn’t ask.” A trickle of both shame and panic ran down his spine. What if she _would_ have asked? He would’ve had to say no. What if she didn’t ask because she knew that already? Did she understand how decidedly _not_ well off they were? She didn’t need to grow up that fast. _It’s my fault if she does._

“It's a unicorn. She likes unicorns. Of course she wants it.” Ford rolled his eyes as he held the large fabric beast up for the disinterested clerk to scan. “She should have nice things.”

Stanley’s lips curled back taut and pressed against his gums. “Are you saying I don’t think my child deserves nice things?” His voice was low and gentle, but oily black venom dripped from behind his teeth all the same. It was a disgustingly low blow. His stomach coiled and knotted like a spring. “Is that what you think?” He _loved_ his little girl. He knew _damn well_ that she deserved this world and a thousand more. He knew there were so many things she deserved that he couldn’t provide, and he knew there wasn’t a _damn thing_ he could do about it. He knew he was failing her as a parent. He was failing her, but he was the only parent she had, and he hated it. He hated that she was stuck with his sorry hide, and he couldn’t help the thick, heavy guilt that accompanied his joyful pride for having her. He could have strangled Stanford, then and there, if it wouldn’t have woken his daughter. He could have strangled him, and it wouldn’t have meant a _thing_ because he was _right_.

“I— _That’s not what I meant._ ” His voice was emphatic. _Of course it wasn’t_. As smart and well-spoken as Ford prided himself on being, that wasn’t what he meant. _Sure_. Stanley turned away from him and stalked out towards the parking lot. _“Stanley—“_

“Shut up, Ford.” He could hear the basket wheels trailing behind him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care either way.

The two fumed their way towards the Stanleymobile, and Stanley buckled Stella in while Stanford maneuvered the large boxes in around Stella. She’d woken up with a whine in the process and Stan fumed as he watched Stanford reach into one of the bags to pull out the stupid unicorn. He handed it to the disoriented child, bleary-eyed and confused by the fuzzy waste of money she couldn't even wrap her arms around. It was as big as she was. Why the fuck did he buy that thing? Part of Stan was sure Ford bought it just to piss him off. She didn’t _need_ that thing, hadn’t even noticed or asked for it, and Stanley didn’t have the space for it. Where was he supposed to keep it? Maybe she could use it as a body pillow back there until she outgrew it or it got too worn-out to keep.

Stanley couldn’t _afford_ these things, and Stanford knew it. All he was doing was setting a precedent that Stanley wouldn’t be able to keep up. Another entry to the list of things he couldn’t provide. It would end up being nothing but trouble.

He kept his eyes trained straight ahead on the road as Stanford mumbled out the occasional direction back into Gravity Falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slips in another chapter and heelys away*


End file.
